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Book^^4JM 




NUGAMENTA5 



A BOOK OF VERSES 



BY 



GEORGE EDWARD RICE. 



" Nos triftia vit?e 
Solamur cantu." statius. 

I left no calling for this idle trade, 
No duty broke." pope. 



BOSTON : 

J. E. TILTON AND COMPANY 

i860. 






,H^ 



Entered according to AS: of Congrefs, in the year I860, 

BY J. E. TILTON AND CO., 

in the Clerk's Office of the Diftrift Court of the Dillricl of 
Maflachufetts. 



I^^l 



Riverlide, Cambridge : 
Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. 



V 




TO THE MEMORY OF ONE WHOSE GENTLE EYES WILL 
NEVER REST UPON THESE PRINTED PAGES, THEY ARE IN- 
SCRIBED, THOUGH ALL UNWORTHY OF THE HONOR, WITH 
SENTIMENTS OF AFFECTION AND REGRET THAT LANGUAGE 
CANNOT INDICATE NOR TIME DESTROY. 



®^^ 



PREFACE 



This Book contains a few pieces of occafional 
Verfe, which, without pretenfion to Poetry, the 
writer trufts may beguile fome weary moments for 
the uncritical reader. 



April, i860. 
16 Court Street, Boston.. 




CONTENTS. 



The Prophecy 

Fantafia 

What Might have Been . 

Ataraxia 

To Glycera 

Twilight and Moonlight 

Myrrha 

At the Firefide 

The Crowning Mercy 

Love, Honor, and Glory 

To the Night Winds 

Stanzas 

A Wreath of Smoke 

Acrofs the Way 

New Year's Eve . 

Mifs Sweetbriar's Courtfliip 

To the Big Tree on Bofton C 

A Revilit 

To a ClalTmate . 

A Courle of Bark 



PAGE 

9 

16 

24 
27 
30 

34 

37 
39 
41 
44 
45 
47 
49 
50 
55 
51 
64 
69 

75 
79 



viu CONTENTS. 




To the Mermaid 


. 89 


A Night in the Rural Diftrlfts 


94 


To a Butterfly at Sea . 


. 100 


An Anfwer to an Invitation to Dine 


104 


A Charcoal Sketch 


. 108 


The Jilted Knight , . , . 


1 10 


Romeo Montague to Juliet Capulet 


. 116 


The Reafon Why .... 


119 


To my Umbrella 


. 120 


Old Wine in New Bottles , 


125 


SONNETS. 





Like an indulgent mother, Nature ftill 
As fome poor captive, prifoned and enchained 
Without, the tempeft rages, and the winds 
I pine and languifh with defire to know . 
In genial funfhine and In ftormy weather 
As fome light bark upon a fummer fea . 
There is an Art no penalties engird , 
The knell is tolled of all my joyous dreams 
Advice is wafted both by Sage and Preacher 
Is there no balm in Gllead for the mood . 
In this delicious filence fo profound . 
Before my voice is filent with the dead 



134 
135 
136 

137 
138 

139 

140 
141 
142 

143 
144 

145 



l'envoi. 
My wifh is granted, if the pafTmg hour . 



146 




VERSES. 



THE PROPHECY. 



PART I. 



If you would hear me fpeak of one who dwelt 
In that fair land of Poland, years agone, 
And of his fate, fo mournful, — and would hear 
Alfo of one whofe love and grief for him 
Raifed her from Earth to Heaven — Liften ! 

There are fuch things, however worldlings fneer, 
As love for all mankind, and fympathy 
With every fufFering of humanity, — 
As loftinefs of purpofe in a life, — 
As moral grandeur in a death, that crowns 
A peerlefs life with an immortal fame, — 
As Woman's love, through forrow and diftrefs,— 
As truft unfaltering, and as broken hearts. 



The moon was flooding with her gentle light 
The green and dewy meadow, and fhe made 
2 



10 THE PROPHECY. 

The night (o calm and lovely, lovelier ftill ; 
The ftars, o'erpov^^ered by her brighter beams, 
Scarce ventured forth, fave here and there a few 
That faintly glimmered in the Orient. 
Nature feemed tranquil, — not a breeze fwept by 
To bid the lily rear its coronal, , 
Or w^aft its perfume from the violet ; 
And fave the murmuring of the rivulet. 
That, creeping fluggifhly along, illumed 
By calm Diana's rays, feemed molten filver. 
The filence was unbroken ; till a found. 
That feemed the meafured tread of warlike men. 
Came from a wooded and far-diftant hill ; 
Nearer it came, and nearer ; now the moon 
Gleamed on the bayonets, and touched their points 
With her pure argent light, and now they came 
With flow and fteady ftep acrofs the plain 
Straight to the river's margin. All were armed 
Save one, who trod the proudeft and moft firm. 
Though he alone of all had nothing more 
To hope on earth, — for he had come to die. 
His crime was this : He dared to ftand alone 
The champion of the Suffering and the Poor ; 
He thought that human laws might yet be framed 
More equal for the Lowly and the Great j 
And that God made this fair and beauteous Earth 
So beautiful, for all men to enjoy 
And walk ere(5l thereon in majefty. 



THE PROPHECY. II 

They called it Treafon, when he fpake thefe thoughts, 
And led him forth upon the plain to die, — 
To die at night, — this calm and lovely night, — 
Becaufe beneath God's glorious eye, — the Sun, — 
They dared not kill the man the people loved. 

Ere6l and unappalled he flood ; his eye. 
Bright vi^ith the light of genius and of truth, 
Undimmed, could face Death's cruel meflengers. 
Godlike he feemed in beauty and in mien ; 
Young, valiant, noble, and yet doomed to die, — 
His purpofe unaccomplifhed, and his great 
And lofty deftiny yet unfulfilled. 
He looked upon the fky, the moon, the ftars. 
The river and the meadow he muft leave ^ 

In one brief moment ; and he thought of Him 
Who made them all fo grand and beautiful. 
And breathed a prayer that he might find at laft 
Reft in His kingdom ; then he thought of her — 
The flower he had worn upon his heart 
In all its bloom, its fragrance, and its beauty — 
Whofe calm fweet fmile was ever at his hearth, 
Whofe life was love and gentlenefs and peace. 
And with her name upon his lips he gave 
The fatal fignal. Oh, moft worthy he, 
Living, to live in fome true woman's eyes. 
And, dying, to be buried in her heart ! 



12 THE PROPHECY. 

A quick, {harp volley, then a heavy fall, 
And all was over. 

Oh, 'twas bravely done ! 
lo Triumphe ! 'twas a worthy deed ! 
Now found the bugle, beat the rattling drum, 
And back to whence ye came. Go ! leave the corfe. 
That held the foul that God is keeping now, 
A prey to wolves lefs mercilefs than ye. 

PART II. 

Alas, how ill news fpeeds ! And yet fhe knew, 
Ere they had told her, that her Love lay dead ! 
Between two great and loving hearts the bond 
Of fympathy is fuch, though feas divide, 
One cannot bleed alone. She fhed no tear 
And made no moan, but flie arofe and wrapped 
Her mantle 'round her flender form and fled 
Straight to the bloodftained fod, — for Love infpired. 
And they whom Love infpires can ne'er be wrong. 
The moon, that hid her face behind a cloud 
And would not fee him die, fhone forth to light her. 
Onward fhe came with fwift unfteady gait. 
Springing, then faltering, like a wounded deer ; — 
Right on fhe fped to his pale corfe, dire6l 
As fleel flies to the magnet. When fhe faw 
The outline of his figure, where he lay 



THE PROPHECY. 1 3 

As graceful and as beautiful in death 

As e'er In life, there rofe one piercing fhriek, 

Wild and unearthly, that might rend the fky ; 

Yet on fhe came. O God ! what human power 

Could keep thefe hearts apart ! Ah ! never yet 

Had Love a truer votary than (he. 

She reached the fpot and knelt, — fhe could not 

weep, — 
Her eyes feemed balls of fire, and her heart. 
Throbbing convulfively with painful fobs 
All unrelieved by tears, was breaking now. 
She wound her arms around his form, and fpake 
To him who ne'er before refufed to llften : — 
"Kind friend, fond lover, gentle hufband, fpeak ! 
It is your Wenda calls. How oft you've faid. 
When fitting fide by fide fome fummer's eve. 
Your arm around me, that if you were dead 
My kifs would roufe you. There, my fweet Love, 

there ! 
I prefs my lips fo cold to yours ftill colder ; 
My arms are 'round you ; are you dead, quite dead ? 
Is the heart ftilled whereon my head hath lain 
So calm and fweetly tranquil, all unmoved 
Save by its throbs that fyllabled my name ? 
My Love, my Life, my Lord, will you not fpeak ? 
My bofom ever thrilled at your dear voice 
Like harpftring to the mlnfirrel's touch. Oh, speak ! 
My Inmoft thoughts were yours, and every wifh 



14 THE PROPHECY. 

Of my fond heart, and all my Fancy's dreams ; 

You were my firft, my laft, and only Love, 

And all my fpirit was by yours controlled. 

And are you dead, my own fweet Love, quite dead ? 

So good, fo noble, generous, and brave ! 

You will not fpeak. I feem of fenfe bereft — 

My brain is reeling. Hark ! I hear a voice 

Not yours, my Love. It is the cry of Blood ! 

For blood unjuftly fhed, blood ftill muft anfwer." 

Then rofe flie from his fide, and ftanding forth 
Towered a Pythonefs in majefty. 
She turned her face towards Warfaw, and fhe raifed 
Trembh'ng aloft one fmall and fculptured hand 
As white as alabafter, fave a fpot 
Made crimfon by a gallant heart's beft blood. 
And thus fhe fpake : — 

*' Woe to the Capital ! 
To the Kingdom, woe ! I feel the fpirit 
Of prophecy is on me. Woe to Poland ! 
A century fhall pafs, then there fhall be 
The Ruffian in your homes. I hear the fhriek 
Of dying victims, and I fee the light 
Of blazing roofs. Woe to fair Poland, woe ! 
This noble blood fhall be avenged in time." 
Then fell fhe on the corfe, and there (he lay, 
Her breaking heart againft his broken one. 
Murmuring fo gently, — " Let me die with him 



THE PROPHECY. I5 

I loved fo much ! O Father, let me die ! " 
And God was merciful and heard her prayer. 

A century has pafTed, and that fair land 
Is knowa no more 'mid nations of the world. 
The Ruffian at their hearths and in their halls 
Now reigns fupreme, yet Nature is the fame ; 
The meadow ftill is fair, the moon beams bright. 
The rivulet creeps by, and nought feems changed, 
Unlefs, perchance, one bank of violets 
Is of a brighter and a lovelier hue 
And yields a fweeter perfume, for it grows 
Above two noble hearts, and there for aye 
The moon fhall beam, the rivulet creep by. 




FANTASIA. 



When I, in melancholy mood, 
By real or by fancied griefs oppreft, 
Sigh but for peace and long to be at reft, 
I find it good 
Alone to wander 

Far from the crowded mart and walks of trade. 
Where foot of man hath feldom trod. 
And there in folitude and filence ponder 
On all the works of a moft bounteous God. 
I feek fometimes the Foreft fhade ; 
To the fad mufic of the Pines I liften. 
And watch the wild wood flowers. 
With hues made brighter by the grateful fhowers, 
Wave in the wind and in the funlight gliften ; 
Or by the margin of the boundlefs fea. 
The fhore my couch, the Heaven my canopy. 
Reclining on the fand I lie 
To hearken to the ripple's mournful tune. 
Or by the filvery radiance of the moon 
To mark the gorgeous pomp and splendors of the 
fky. 



FANTASIA. 

While ftraying thus one day 
From all the haunts of men 
Far, very far away, 

To greet the breezes from acrofs the fea, 
I came upon a fmall and lovely glen 
Where grew the Jafmine and the Violet, 
The fpicy Pink, the fragrant Mignonette, 
And fweet Anemone ; 
And in that lonely fpot. 
With Woodbine covered o'er. 
Stood a fequeftered cot. 

Wearied and faint, and tired of meditation, 
I hailed with joy this human habitation, 
And at the cottage door 
I faw a man with flowing filvery hair 
Who beckoned me to come, and placed a chair 
And afked me to partake his fimple fare. 

Refrefhed with food and wine, 
I thanked this hoft of mine ; 
And when I rofe, my foofteps to retrace. 
Sadly the old man fighed. 

And the big tears came flreaming down his face. 
" You've been by forrow tried, — 
Tell me your tale," I cried, 
" Why by this defolate fhore. 
Hearing the wind's fad moan 



17 



l8 FANTASIA. 

And the deep ocean's roar, 

You dwell remote, untended, and alone." 

Sadly he gazed on the glorious fea. 
And this was the tale as he told it to me : — 

" Long, long ago in years gone by. 
Ere forrow ftruck me with a fatal dart. 
And Life was bright and hopes were high, 
I wooed and won the Idol of my heart. 

" In this little cot lived we, 
That gentle girl and I, 
As happy as we could be. 
Week after week flew by, 
Flew by my Love and me. 
And month came in and month pafTed out, 
But we heeded not what the months were about, 
So pleafantly lived we 
By the fide of the founding fea. 

" Happy beyond humanity's lot 
Were we in this defolate fpot. 
For fwiftly and joyoufly pafTed the time 
While we read volumes of quaint old rhyme 
Sung by the Poets whofe wonderful art 
Quickens the throbs of a Nation's heart, 
And thofe enchanting tales of Fairy land 



FANTASIA. 19 

That erft had charmed us in our childhood's hours ; 

And then, with hand in hand, 

Or with my arm around her flender waift, 

Happy to be thus placed, 

We wandered o'er the fields and plucked the flowers. 

"Thofe days have flown, — I can but fay 'Woe's 
me !' 
And think how blithe were we ; 
Unmindful that calamity might come ; 
That we might live and love no more 
In our fmall cot, befide this rocky fhore, 
That made fo dear a home. 
We could not fancy as the years flew by, — 
Flew by on angel's pinions, — 
That any clouds could darken our bright fky ; 
That aught could dim the luflre of an eye 
Or caufe one tearful figh 
In Love's dominions. 

" How oft at eve, along the rocks, we ftrolled 
To hear the ocean's roar 

And watch the waves, as one by one they rolled 
Up the refounding fhore ! 
And as we recognized the mighty hand 
Of Him who made the fea, the fky, the land. 
We felt our fouls expand. 
And loved each other more 
Than e'er we loved before. 



20 FANTASIA. 

" So love went on increafing day by day, 
And three years pafTed away ; 
No happier hours were ever known than we 
Enjoyed in this fmall cot befide the deep blue fea. 

" One fearful night, 
When the ftorm was abroad in all its might, 
Reading I fat alone 
Hearing the moan 

Of the fierce tempeft, and the ocean's roar, 
And by our cottage door 

Swept the great angry waves with many a groan 
And many a difmal wail ; 
Frequent the lightning's flafh, 
Frequent the fudden crafh. 
That told of fome great tree laid proftrate by the gale. 

" She in the funfhine of whofe fmile I lived, 
In winning whom Life's purpofe feemed to end ; 
Who never, while I loved her, could have grieved, — 
My better angel and unchanging friend, — 
Had feen the heavy clouds around us lower 
And fought her chamber at the twilight hour ; 
But when the ftorm rofe high 
And raged with violence fo fuperhuman 
I wifhed to join her, — for, when danger's nigh, 
'Tis thought a gentle woman 
Feels lefs inquietude and fear. 
If by her fide is one to whom fhe's dear, — 



FANTASIA. 21 

So I the half-read book 
Returned to its accuftomed nook 
And fought the chamber where I thought there lay- 
All that my God had given, — all he could take away. 

" Softly I opened the unfaftened door; 
She who remembered every facred duty, 
In all her innocence and beauty. 
Was kneeling on the floor. 
I knew her prayer afcended. 
Meekly, fmcerely. 
For him ftie loved fo dearly. 
And, ere that prayer was ended. 
For me to enter there 
Would have profaned the air 
Made holy by her prayer. 
I could but worfhip her, — 
A faintlike woman who could never err, — 
So ftainlefs and fo fair. 

" When her fond prayer was faid 
She raifed her queenlike head 
And turned on me her gentle eyes 
With a faint fmile of fweet furprifa. 
Forth from the threfhold of the door 
I sprang to raife her from the floor, 
But ere my extended arms 
Could clafp her graceful charms 



22 FANTASIA. 

A fudden, dazzling glare 
Lightened the murky air, 
And on the floor fhe lay ; 
Without a figh or groan 
Her foul had pafled away 
And I was left — alone ! 

" Stilled is the heart that folely beat for me 
Three happy years befide the deep blue fea ; 
The gentle eyes are clofed 

That fhone fo brightly when I fang their praifes, 
And o'er the bofom where my head repofed 
Grow now the violets and daifies. 
There, in her favorite dell. 

Where fhe oft wandered when the Morn was break- 
ings 
She ileeps the fleep that knows no waking, 
Surrounded by the flowers (he loved in life fo well. 

" Long years have fled fmce then. 
And Time has bowed my head and blanched my hair, 
While I, remote from men. 
Have paflTed my days in ftudy and in prayer. 
Here in this fpot made holy by her death 
Will I yield up my breath. 
And while I live my life fhall be 
Kept facred to her memory. 



FANTASIA. 23 

'Tis good to bear the Crofs, 

And if my grievous lofs 

To me is fan6tified, 

And I, by fore affli6lion tried, 

From all my earthly taints 

And fms am purified, 

In manfions of the Jufl, 

Beyond the fky, I truft 

To meet her with the Saints." 

The fun had tinged the weftern wave with glory, 
The twilight had crept on me, and the pall 
Of Night had flowly fettled over all, 
The while I liftened to this tearful ftory ; 
Then through the air I heard a diftant bell 
That pierced my foul like a funereal knell. 
And I aroufed me and my footfteps bent 
Homeward in ferious and thoughtful mood, 
With all my feelings chaflened and fubdued, 
On the philofophy of dreams intent. 







WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 

" For of all fad words of tongue or pen, 
The faddeft are thefe, — ' It might have been.'" 

WHITTIER. 
I. 

What lies in the fhadowy Future, alas ! 

Never falls within a blind Mortal's ken ; 
We cannot forefee what will come to pafs, 

But we know too furely what might have been ; 
Fulfilment of hopes that our fanguine youth 

Thought fimply awaited that we (hould be men 
And could buckle our armor on for the Truth 

Are among all the things that might have been. 

II. 

Like mift in the morn fled the rofeate hue 

Everything wore in that cloudlefs day 
When hearts beat gayly, for Life was new 

And flowers feemed fcattered all over our way ; 
We thought the time of our triumph fo proud 

Would come and denote us vi6lorious men, 
Now namelefs we ftruggle amid the crowd 

And bitterly think of what might have been. 



WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 25 



III. 

Sorrow is fruitlefs, — Regret is vain, — ^ 

Experience teaches but little to man ; 
We fhould negleil our chances again, 

Though we now know fomething of Nature's 
plan ; 
We talk of the blind undifcerning Age 

That hailed us not as the coming men, — 
Hiftory opened a virgin page 

To receive our names, — did we feize the pen ? 

IV. 

Ah, no ! we bafked and dreamed in the fun 

While opportunities rare went by. 
We awoke to find that nothing was done. 

Then fat us down in the duft to figh ; 
We grieve, when we are alone to blame. 

We, the vainglorious, cowardly men, — 
Not having conquered a wreath from Fame, 

It is idle to prate of what might have been. 

v. 

But yet to us all 'tis the folace left. 

When difappointment has marked our way. 

Being of hope for the Future bereft, 
To fpeak of the hope of a former day ; 

3 



26 WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 

Not having been to our Miffion true, — 
And heaven ordains to the leaft of men 

Manifold duties that he {hould do, — 

We love to talk of vi^hat might have been. 

VI. 

I might have roamed over this world fo wide. 

In happinefs fuch as ne'er mortal knew, 
I as your guard, and you as my guide. 

In fearch for the Beautiful, Pure, and True ; 
I might have won an undying fame. 

That would live in the hearts of my fellow-men, 
And have made you proud that you bore my name : 

All thefe are things that might have been. 

VII. 

My youth was tinged with a golden hue, 

By the fond illufion that you were mine, 
That I fhould prove my paffion was true. 

By a life's devotion through ftorm and fhine. 
We might have been happy — but let that pafs. 

For naught betides that we hoped for then, — 
You are fleeping under the waving grafs. 

And I live but to think of what might have been. 



ATARAXIA. 

When I am all aweary of the ftrife. 
The turmoil and the reftlefTnefs of life, 
And can no longer bear my unquiet heart 
By cares and fears diftreft, 
But need the folace and the balm of reft, 
I leave the town with all its bufy hum 
And feek the country and its folitude ; 
Here to thefe fields I come, 
And need no Teacher with his formal art 
To prove that man is nought and God is good, — 
No voice can fpealc like Nature's to my heart ; — 
In every leaf and bud and flower I fee 
How great His power, and feel how weak are we ;, 
And as befide this violet bank I lie 
Marking the ftream glide by 
With fteady ceafelefs flow, 
Myfelf I fcarcely know ; 
I am no longer he who came 
In fierce defpairing mood 
With all his brain aflame. 
But I am tranquil, quiet, and fubdued ; 



28 ATARAXIA. 

For as the ftream flows onward to the fea. 
With gentle murmur Toothing my fad foul, 
It bears my gloomy thoughts far, far from me, 
And off my heart the heavy fhadows roll. 

And while befide this river's brink 
I lie ouftretched, I think 
How true it is we fuffer not alone, — 
Of griefs we know our own. 
But be he friend or brother 
We know not all the forrows of another ; 
And fome who a6l a cheerful part 
Have fome great hidden grief 
From which there's no efcape — to which there's 

no relief. 
That like a vulture rends the bleeding heart, 
Who yet will not complain, 
And ne'er betray, 
Coft what the ftruggle may, 
By any outward fign, the inward pain. 

It is the inevitable law 
That man is born to trouble and to forrow. 
And uncomplaining he ihould bear the crofs. 
For if each to-morrow 
Brings not the folace that we hope to-day. 
Nor makes atonement for fome bitter lofs. 
It fets us farther on our onward way, 



ATARAXIA. 29 

And leaves us nearer to that pleafant fhore 
Where care and grief can trouble us no more. 

Then whatfoe'er the Fates decree, 
It ftill fhall be 

The conftant burden of my prayer and fong 
That I may have the power 
In ftern Misfortune's hour, 
To fufFer and yet evermore be ftrong. 




TO GLYCERA. 



After fo long a thraldom, to be free. 
Is happlnefs fupreme. I once fuppofed. 

My pulfe could never throb, except for thee ; 

Thou wert my heart's true Queen, but now, de- 
pofed 

By thy rebellious fubje6l, who at laft 

Brooks not the Tyrant. Go, thy reign is paft ! 

II. 

Though all is over, and 'twere worfe than idle 
The afhes of this buried love to raife, — 

Yet thoughts come thronging, and I cannot bridle 
The tongue that fang fo often in thy praife ; 

The World was all forgotten for thy fake ; 

And I muft fpeak, or my full heart will break. 



III. 



The recolle6lion of the days now fled. 

When all my thoughts were trufted to thy care,- 



TO GLYCERA. 3 1 

When I ftill followed where thy footfleps led, 

And deemed it happinefs thy griefs to fliare, — 
Shall, in the filent night, come back to thee, 
And fill thy faddened heart with dreams of me. 

IV. 

And I, alas ! muft think and figh the while. 
How, overcoming all my manhood's pride, 

I hailed the funfhine of thy glorious fmile. 

And knew no pain, but abfence from thy fide ; 

Apart from thee, this loving heart of mine 

Throbbed the dull moments till my lips met thine, — 

V. 

And then my blood, with lava-flowing tide, 

Courfing tumultuous through each fwelling vein, 

Swept like a torrent down the mountain fide. 

Straight to my burning foul and maddening brain ; 

And in thofe hours of terrible unreft, 

I told the love that raged within my breaft. 

VI. 

Thy lips refponded, and my joyous heart 
Leaped like a courfer, as he nears the goal ; 

My reafon fled, o'ercome by Beauty's Art, 
And I was thine at hazard of my foul. 

Nay, fpeak not ! I have known by far too well. 

Thy voice's mufic, and its magic fpell. 



32 TO GLYCERA. 

VII. 

But now, when Reafon reaflerts her fway, 
I feel that Life hath nobler ends than Love, 

The fond ambitious dreams of Boyhood's day 
Return, as to the Ark the wandering dove ; 

Hard is the ftruggle, but I rend thy chain, 

And ftand ered. I am a man again ! 

VIII. 

Enfranchifed now, no more my fteps fhall ftray 
To thine abode. We part at length forever ! 

I ne'er will let thy Siren voice efTay 

To lure me back again. I fwear, that never 

Will I behold thee, left thy charms fhould move 

My lips to flatter, and my foul to love. 

IX. 

No more in trembling accents will I fue. 
Or gather bloflb.-ns to bedeck thy head ; 

The Paffion that I nurfed until it grew 

Stronger than Reafon, now is cold and dead, 

And cold and dead to thee fhall be the heart 

Once fo controlled by thy tranfcendent Art. 

X. 

I grieve for mine own weaknefs ; I repine 
At moments loft in gazing on thy face ; 



TO GLYCERA. 33 

I have regained my heart, that long was thine, 

By one ftrong manly effort, and no trace 
Of all my fond affe(3:ion fhall be feen ; 
I will not be the flave that I have been. 

XI. 

We part ! Farewell ! I never can forget 
What it were better could Oblivion fhroud ; 

But will not paufe to tell one fad regret ; 

I'll breathe a figh, then onward with the crowd. 

Is that a tear ? My ftruggles are in vain ; 

See, Love, I'm kneeling at thy feet again ! 




TWILIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. 



TWILIGHT. 



The twilight with its miftinefs and gloom 

Over the peopled city flowly falls, 
While I am fitting in my lonely room 

Watching the fhadows deepening on the walls. 
Let me not think of vifions that have paft, — 

Of hopes of Fame, — of ftern demands of duty. 
Of Boyhood's dreams too fanciful to laft, — 

I'll take the hour to fing of Love and Beauty. 



II. 

But ere the Lyre yields to my careifing, 

Sweet ftrains of mufic float upon the air, 
A gentle hand is on my {houlder preffing, 

I turn and fee an angel by my chair. 
" From yon blue Heaven," fhe fays, " I guard and 
cherifh 

All thofe who ftrive to win the Poet's crown. 
Be not enflaved by Beauty or you perifh 

And fall from Godhke heights ignobly down." 



TWILIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. 35 



III. 

I dare to anfwer, and with accents trembling 

Exclaim, " Let Fame depart, I'll not repine ; 
When Beauty fmiles, my heart knows no diflem- 
bling. 

And what were Glory to a Love like mine ! " 
" Alas," (he fays, " Has Reafon then no chance ? 

Lift to her clarion voice for one brief minute ; " 
" Hold ! hold ! " I cry, " Pll break her (hining lance. 

For v^^hat is Love if there is Reafon in it ? " 

IV. 

Again fhe fpeaks, but now with exultation, 

" Your heart, I find, is in the right condition ; 
'Tis Love that gives the Poet inspiration. 

And power to fulfil his lofty miffion ; 
Love on, — 'twill keep the heart forever young. 

Hymn Beauty's praifes wherefoe'er you're roving, 
The nobleft fongs by Poet ever fung 

Were fung by him who knew the pains of lov- 
ing." 

MOONLIGHT. 
V. 

And now Diana, from her throne on high, — 
That virgin huntrefs with the filver bow, — 



36 TWILIGHT AND MOONLIGHT. 

Becomes each moment brighter in the fky, 
And fheds her gentle Hght on all below ; 
And through each pane within my cafement ftream- 

My room fhe lightens with her beams divine, 
It is the hour when a Poet's dreaming 
Is woven into verfe, and this is mine. 



MYRRHA. 

" She came in all her Beauty, like the moon from the cloud 
of the Eaft. Lovelinefs was around her as light. Her fteps 
were like the mufic of fongs." ossiAN. 



My Fancy now has tafked her utmoft fkill. 
And called before me an entrancing vifion 

To foothe my heart, to charm away each ill, 
And lap me in a happinefs Elyiian ; 

II. 

For I difcern acrofs the moonbeams flitting 
A fylphlike form of excellence moil rare, 

And now around the couch whereon Pm fitting 
She floats in all her beauty through the air. 



III. 



I know within that form reigns Myrrha's heart. 
To none but her fuch fabled charms are given ; 

Nature, for once, has far exceeded Art, 

And fent her as a perfect work from Heaven. 



38 MYRRHA. 

IV. 

I feize the Lyre, — in vain I ftrive to fing 

The love my tongue to her would fain exprefs, 

Her name alone breathes forth from every ftring, 
My Art is conquered by her lovelinefs. 

v. 

The ftrength, that I had vainly deemed my flay, 
Melts like the fnow before her Beauty's light,— 

Her charms divine ufurp my mind by day. 

And break repofe v^^ith reftlefs dreams by night. 

VI. 

IF 

In {lore for me are many dreary hours. 

But, Myrrha, there are none for one fo fair ; 

Thy path fhall be enamelled o'er with flowers,— 
The Beautiful are God's efpecial care. 



AT THE FIRESIDE. 

Come, deareft, ere they light the evening lamps, 
And fit with me and gaze upon the fire. 
I like to watch the dying embers fade ; 
Thus let my arm encircle thee ; — now reft 
Againft my fhoulder thy dear queenlike head. 
And I will tell thee how my wayward Life 
Was unfulfill'd until I won thy love ; 
For my fad foul was like the wandering dove 
Sent from the Ark, that found no refting place ; 
Or like fome rudderlefs and fhattered Bark 
Foriaken on a wild tempeftuous fea, 
Drifting its aimlefs courfe from point to point. 
Fixed to no purpofe. There were few to fmile 
And bid God fpeed me on my onward courfe. 
Life had for me nor obje6l, end, nor aim ; 
All noble afpirations, high refolves 
And fond ambitious dreams had fled. I feized 
The flowery wreath that fmiling Pleafure held. 
And liftened to her Siren voice, nor ftrove 
To loofe the arms ftie flung around my neck ; 
But all was Vanity, — and I grew weary 



40 AT THE FIRESIDE. 

Of this fad world of trouble, pain, and guilt. 
Dark was my foul, but when the light of thine 
Shone on me, I arofe like fome way-worn, 
Benighted traveller, who perceives that Day 
Is breaking in the Eaft, and ftruggles on 
To greet the uprifing Sun. Before thy beams, 
The clouds disperfed, and life again feemed bright. 
Taught by thy grand example then I learned 
How dear and pleafant are the ways of Truth. 
I flrove to walk within her peaceful paths. 
And Thou wert my exceeding great reward. 




THE CROWNING MERCY. 



Fill up the cup, my Beauty, fill up, 

We've a long way to travel before we can fup ; 

Your blue eyes are bright, and would they might light 

The dangerous path we muft travel to-night ; 

Charlie has fled, there's a price on his head. 

And many a gallant at Worcefter lies dead. 

II. 

If the cropheads advance, we fhall forfeit the chance 
To efcape from thefe fhores to luxurious France ; 
Yet here we'll remain for a moment to drain 
A flagon and fing a wild cavalier flrain ; 
Ere to faddle we fpring thefe rafters fhall ring 
With death to Old Noll and long life to the King. 



III. 

Many times by the fide of Rupert, our pride, 
Have I had the honor in battle to ride ; 
In Marfton Moor's fray, throughout all the day, 
I ne'er from the found of his voice was away ; 
4 



42 THE CROWNING MERCY. 

At Nafeby's figbt, I rode clofe to his right, 
And helped him efcape by the (hade of the night. 

IV. 

But never, I ween, has fuch carnage been feen 

In thefe wars as at Worcefter to-day there has been ; 

Through the gates, which they crafhed, the Puritans 

dafhed. 
And bright in the funh'ght their morions flafhed ^ 
Thus taken by ftorm, our troops couldn't form. 
And the hand-to-hand confli6l was bloody and warm. 



No mufic I hear is fo fvveet to my ear 
As the din of the conteft when weapons ring clear ; 
Our good fwords were tough, our greeting was rough. 
And with crimfon we dyed many jerkins of buff; 
Tierce battle we gave all the day, and the wave 
Of Severn flowed red with the blood of the brave. 

VI. 

It was war to the knife, and through the hot ftrife 
Each Cavalier knew that he fought for his life ; 
How fweet were the moans and the fhrieks and the 

groans 
Of the knaves that our chargers' hoofs trod to the 

ftones ; 
By Jove ! 'twas a fight, as to left and to right 
We cut and we flafhed through that terrible fight. 



THE CROWNING MERCY. 43 



VII, 

By Charlie we ftood while it did any good ; 
But, when he had fled, we efcaped as we could ; 
The Country is loft, — this we know to our coft, — 
And the boifterous channel to-night muft be croft ; 
For fuccefs to our trip, pray give me a ftp 
Of the gliftening dew on that red pouting lip. 

VIII. 

With ftich a fweet kifs, as that one and this, 
My fortune to-day has not been fo amifs ; 
Feel no alarm for that wound on my arm, 
The fafli you tied over it a6ls like a charm ; 
But fill up the cup, my Beauty, fill up. 
Then, Comrades, to horfe, 'tis in France we muft 
fup. 







Pi 






LOVE, HONOR, AND GLORY. 



Like a dying old Giant the wind howled and moaned, 

And fhook with great fury the fafhes, 
In fadnefs of heart by the fire I groaned, 

And traced out her face in the afhes ; 
The days of bright hopes like a dream had pafled by. 

And Life feemed a very dull ftory, 
But I thought of the time when my pulfes beat high 

And I fighed for Love, Honor, and Glory. 



II. 

The fire at laft went entirely out, 

And the candles, but I never mifled them ; 
For Sleep on her pinions came flying about, 

And ftooped down to my eyelids and kifled 
them ; 
Forgot for the time was each fear and each doubt,— 

Forgot each difheartening ftory, — 
Forgot every grief, — and my heart became ftout. 

For I dreamed of Love, Honor, and Glory. 






TO THE NIGHT WINDS. 

Gentle winds, ye have come over mountain and 

dale, 
Ye have fwept o'er the ocean and kifTed the white 

fail; 
Ye have entered the chamber and gazed on the 

flumbers 
Of her who is ever the theme of my numbers ; 
Ye have lingered awhile where my Charmer re- 

pofes, 
To breathe on her cheek, — that abode of the 

rofes ; 
Ye have prefled for a moment that delicate lip, 
Where the bees of Hymettus their honey might 

fip; 
Ye have hovered enraptured around her fweet 

bofom. 
More fragrant than dew on the Hyacinth's bloflbm ; 
And as with remembrance of her ye come freighted. 
My heart that was fad becomes ftrangely elated ; 
Ye can mark her repofe in this defolate hour. 
For ye enter unheeded, where none have the power ; 
Then feek her again, in her home by the fea, 



46 TO THE NIGHT WINDS. 

And bear to her bedfide this meflage from me. 
Go ! tell her my heart, that has loved her in gladnefs, 
Would be fonder and truer in forrow and fadnefs j 
And through the wide world fhe may roam nor dif- 

cover 
So truthful a friend and fo faithful a lover. 
Alas, this is idle ! Fate's cruel decree 
Forbids that her love fhould emparadife me ; 
But who can reftore me my heart as fhe found it, 
Or my foul difenthrall from the fpell caft around it ? 
And when the time comes that forbids all diflem- 

bling, — - 
When darknefs furrounds, and Life's taper is trem- 
bling, 
I will breathe her dear name as my forrows are end- 
ing, 
And then my fad foul to its Heaven afcending 
Shall bear a fond prayer to the Powers fupernal. 
That her life, like my love, may be pure and eternal. 

And when o'er my afhes the lilies are blooming, 
The air that floats over me fweetly perfuming. 
Ye will paufe by the fpot where in peace I am lying. 
Unheeding the world and its fmiling or fighing, 
And will mark that whenever the feeling fweeps o'er 

her. 
That I died, as I always had lived, her adorer. 
She comes and bedews, as a forrowful duty. 
The flowers that cannot furpafs her in beauty. 



STANZAS. 



I. 



'Tis evening, and the moon above 
Doth glorioufly fhine ; 

And to the health of her I love 
I drink this ruby wine. 



II. 



A thoufand leagues my heart returns, 
Far, far acrofs the brine. 

To her for whom my fpirit yearns. 
To whom I drink this wine. 



III. 



Her figure, graceful as the fawn. 

And flender as the vine 
From which the cluftering grapes were torn 

To make this glorious wine. 



IV. 



Would gain new ftrength, could fhe but print 
Her foot befide the Rhine, 



48 STANZAS. 

And her pale cheek would wear a tint 
Tranfcending this red wine. 

V. ♦ 

The moon would have a fofter charm, 
A light ftill more divine, 

If (he were leaning on my arm 
To whom I drink this wine. 

VI. 

If there is virtue in a prayer 

That flows from lips of mine, 

Her life fhall be the Angels care. 
Her happinefs divine. 



ig 



A WREATH OF SMOKE. 



When clouds, o'ercharged with care and grief, 

Seem gathering around, 
'Tis in the rolled tobacco leaf 

That folace can be found ; 
With every pufF there fades away 

Some true or fancied forrow. 
And I am happy for the day, 

Whatever betide the morrow. 



II. 

The graceful wreaths of fmoke I blow. 

To yon blue Heavens afcend, 
I blefs each one, as ofF they go. 

Like fome departing friend ; 
And wifh that I could foar above, 

Or had, like them, the power 
To charm away from thofe I love 

Each fad and dreary hour. 



ACROSS THE WAY. 



l^HE moon is filvering old Park-Street fteeple, 

Likewife the trees, 
And fleep is creeping o'er the Bofton people 

By flow degrees. 



II. 



I throw my cafement open wide, and wheel 

My eafy-chair 
To face the ftreet, that I may breathe and feel 

The cool night air. 



III. 



And while reclining here I mufe and ponder 

On life's decay, 
A light illummates a chamber yonder 

Acrofs the way. 



IV. 



And as the tongue of midnight tells the hour 
From ftreet to ftreet, 



ACROSS THE WAY. 5 1 

I fee upon the threfhold of her bower 
So pure and fweet. 



A Beauty ftanding, with a form excelling 

All dreams of Art, 
And feel a wonderful emotion fwelling 

My throbbing heart. 



VI. 

How gracefully fhe fets the flickering candle 

Upon the floor, 
The while {he turns the little ivory handle 

And bolts the door. 



VII. 

Then to the cafement haftily advances 

That charming maid ; 
For one brief moment at the fky fhe glances, 

Then pulls the fhade. 

VIII. 

Ah ! will fhe fhut out this extremely fine, 

Clear night of June ? 
Yes ! fhe unmafks not beauty fo divine 

E'en to the moon. 



52 ACROSS THE WAY. 



IX. 



But think not, dear, your movements are unknown, 

For, by the aid 
Of Fancy, and the fhadow that is thrown 

Upon the fhade. 



X. 



I feel, — and either were a faithful guide, — 

Extremely certain 
Of all that happens on the other fide 

Of that thick curtain. 



XI. 



Now of your tafteful garments you're divefting 

Moft gracefully, 
To make yourfelf look ftill more interefting 

In " robe de nuit^^ 



XII. 



Acrofs the room I fee your form fo fair 

Pafs and repafs. 
And now you're ftanding taking down your hair 

Before the glafs. 



XIII. 



That hair abundant, whofe rich golden curls 
Delight beholders. 



ACROSS THE WAY. 53 

Loofed from confinement by a few quick twirls 
Falls down your fhoulders, — 

XIV. 

Shoulders as fragrant as the airs about 

The funny South, — 
Now, darling, take thofe pins directly out 

Of your fweet mouth. 

XV. 

You leave the glafs abruptly, and I find 

That all is ftill ; 
How fweet your pretty face muft look behind 

That fnowy frill. 

XVI. 

And now you read a verfe of fome fweet Poet 

You think divine, 
Tranfported would I be, could I but know it 

Were verfe of mine. 



XVII. 

And now upon the cufhion by the chair 

Your figure bends, 
And from your lips a pure and heartfelt prayer 

To Heaven afcends. 



54 ACROSS THE WAY. 

XVIII. 

" Nymph, in thy orifons be all my fins 

Remembered '* now, 
And give one thought to me ere fleep begins 

To touch your brow. 

XIX. 

So all is dark and quiet, you have juft 

Put out the light ; 
Sleep, fleep protected by the Heaven you truft ! 

Fair Saint, — Good night. 



m 



NEW YEAR'S EVE. 



Old Father Time with glafs in hand 

And fcythe acrofs his fhoulder, 
Is by my fide reminding me 

That I am growing older ; 
And fadly fays the kind old man, 

In accents foft and clear, 
" My hour-glafs I foon fhall turn, 

Then vanifhes the year." 



II. 

So from this long and graceful jar 

I pour the fragrant wine. 
And, when old Time turns up his glafs, 

I'll do the fame to mine. 
And drink to all upon the land. 

And all upon the fea. 
And figh the while I bid Farewell 

To Eighteen Fifty-Three. 



56 NEW year's eve. 



III. 

ril grieve not for deceitful friends 

Whofe falfenefs I've detefted, 
But drink to thofe exalted hearts 

I never have furpe6led, 
Who changing not with every turn 

Of Fortune's tipfy wheel. 
Are ever grappled to my foul 

With hooks of triple fteel. 

IV. 

I'll drink to her who does not fcorn 

My rude unpolifhed verfe, 
Whofe love would be a talifman 

Though all the world fhould curfe, 
And who would fmile upon the chain 

With which I'd gladly bind her, — 
I'll drink to her with all my heart, 

And love her, — when Ifind her. 




MISS SWEETBRIAR'S COURTSHIP. 



A BALLAD. 



There flood, when happened fome fummers ago 

The events of the following ftory, 
A large ftone hotel, as many folks know. 

At the end of Nahant's promontory ; 
And when they couldn't endure the heat, 

Then all the world and its daughter. 
Some of whom are "e//V^," but fome very effete, 

Would ftart for the fait fea-water. 



II. 



What bevies of feminine beauties rare. 

Such as feen in a poet's dream are. 
Going down to Nahant for the bracing air. 

Have I met in that little fteamer ; 
And I thought it aware of its precious freight 

And endowed with human fenfation. 
For every plank feemed very elate 

And gave an extra vibration. 



58 MISS sweetbriar's courtship. 

III. 

Now of all the charmers who vifited there, 

To look at the broad Atlantic, 
A few years fince, was one who was fair, 

Surpaffingly fair and romantic ; 
But as the ftory that I fhall tell 

Is a very veracious hiftory. 
The name of "/^ plus belle des belles " 

Muft remain forever a myftery. 

IV. 

Yet as names are very convenient things 

To the poet who ftrikes his lyre. 
And deeds of lovers and heroes fmgs, 

I fhall call her Mifs Jane Sweetbriar ; 
And this you will underftand to be 

But a fanciful appellation, 
For her real name wouldn't be breathed by me 

On any confideration. 



Now Jane Sweetbriar, — with her mamma, — 

Was the very earlieft comer. 
For the rooms were engaged by her dear papa 

Throughout the entire fummer ; 
But 'twas during the month of the fultry air, 

When the fiery dog-ftar rages, 



59 



That occurred and tranfpired the Htde affair 
I relate in the following pages. 

VI. 

Mifs Jane Sweetbriar was always told 

By her mother and other relations 
She was deftined to make, in the world fo cold, 

The greateft of all fenfations ; 
That her father was wealthy, and fhe was fair, 

And by nature defigned to wed 
A reigning prince, — or the Ton and heir 

Who'd be prince when his father was dead. 

VII. 

Now as this was inflilled from her earlieft youth. 

Of courfe fhe grew very inflated. 
Believing it all to be gofpel truth. 

And her princely lover awaited ; 
And though gentlemen very well born and bred, 

Accomplifhed, refined, and clever. 
Were attentive, fhe bridled her haughty head 

And diftinaiy faid, " No, Sir, never." 

VIII. 

Then men began to keep very aloof. 
As the vulgar would fay, " fight fhy," 

For they never will woo when there's pretty good 
proof 
It ifn't of ufe to try. 



6o MISS sweetbriar's courtship. 

And I heard full many a perfon fay, 
Who of charity hadn't a particle, 

That her market fhe'd certainly overftay 
And become a (hop-worn article. 

IX. 

But one Auguft day by the boat there came, 

To adorn the hotel fociety, 
A fhort young man with a very long name 

Who was drefled with extreme propriety. 
And as he danced fo exceedingly well, 

And fang to the ladies, divinely. 
And was quite an agreeable fea-fhore fwell. 

He got on, of courfe, quite finely. 



But that he might be the better received 

By the girls, he to fome confided 
That he was a Duke, which they all believed, 

But I will be bleft if I did, 
For I moft audacioufly dared furmife 

That his Grace was an impofition, 
But angry glances from beautiful eyes 

Frowned on the foul fufpicion. 

XI. 

Now female artillery brought to bear, 
Opened at once their fire. 



MISS sweetbriar's courtship. 6i 

And the Duke foon fell at the exquifite pair 

Of feet of Mifs Jane Sweetbriar ; 
And Jane was as pleafant as fhe could be, 

And put on her airs and graces, 
And it wafn't a difficult thing to fee 

She was going through all her paces. 

XII. 

And if any one afked where (he could be found, 

They'd fay, "That foreigner has her, 
Conftantly walking her 'round and around 

The ladies' upper piazza." 
Ah, me ! If every balcony rail 

Had the means of communication. 
How many a foft and tender tale 

It could tell of each fweet flirtation. 



XIII. 

Jane's delicate blood the Duke would ftir. 

As he'd tell, in his manner romantic. 
Of the " Chateau in Spain" that was ready for her 

Juft over the briny Atlantic. 
And then he'd defcribe the magnificent fpot 

That was fo like a fairy fcene, 
Juft as m^endacious Claude Melnotte 

Ufed to talk to the filly Pauline. 



62 



XIV. 

And now one evening after tea, 

As they fat in their room together. 
Did Jane and her darling mother agree 

That the Duke had views, but whether 
'Twere beft to confent at once, or defer, 

Was a matter for confultation. 
And mamma told Jane it was left to her, 

After ferious converfation. 



XV. 

Then Jane faid, " Mother, I'm twenty-three, 

And no prince has come hither to wed. 
And I think on the whole it were better for me | 

To put up with a Duke inftead." 
And fo 'twas decided. The following day 

The rumor abroad was carried 
That Jane Sweetbriar was ^^ fiancee " 

To the Duke, and would foon be married. 



XVI. 

Then how important the family grew. 
And evinced an increafed gentility, 

Which proved that they were poiTeffing a true 
Republican love for nobility ; 



I 



63 



r 



And even papa declared that he 
From trade would at once retire, 

When on a ducal family tree 

Was engrafted a fair Sweetbriar. 

XVII. 

It foon turned out that this elegant Duke, 

(Oh, Jane, what a fad difafter !) 
At a New York Inn was affiftant cook. 

And had robbed and fled from his mafter. 
Now this employed the goffips awhile. 

And I fancied that I detected 
Many a very triumphant fmile 

On the faces of Jane's reje6ted. 

XVIII. 

To hear the remarks and perceive the fneers 

Of her friends, was, of courfe, unpleafant, 
So fhe went abroad to remain for years, 

And there fhe refides at prefent ; 
And doubtlefs noblemen mark her way. 

And on Love's fleet wings purfue her, 
But fhe'll never forget till her dying day 

The counterfeit Duke, — her wooer. 



TO THE BIG TREE ON BOSTON COMMON. 



When firft from Mother Earth you fprung, 
Ere Puritans had come among 
The favages to loofe each tongue 

In pfalms and prayers, 
Thefe *' Forty Acres, more or lefs," 
Now putting on their fummer drefs, 
Were but a " howling wildernefs " 

Of wolves and bears. 



II. 

Moft wondrous changes you have feen 
Since you put forth your primal green 

And tender fhoot ; 
Three hundred years your life has fpanned, 
Yet calm, ferene, erecSl you ftand. 
Of great renown throughout the land, 
Though fhowing marks of Time's hard hand 

From crown to root. 



TO THE BIG TREE ON BOSTON COMMON. 65 



III. 

You, when a (lender fapling, faw 
The perfecuted reach this fhore 

And in their turn 
Treat others juft as they'd been treated ; 
To mete the meafure that's been meted, 

How man does yearn. 



IV. 

Of tales, perchance devoid of truth. 
With which they would in early youth 

My heart appall, 
Was one the goffips ufed to tell 
About a witch fo grim and fell 
They hung on you for raifmg — Well, 

It wafn't Saul. 



V. 

Since you beheld the light of day 
A race has nearly pafTed away, — 

A warlike nation. 
Who oft with fire-water plied 
Loft all their bravery and pride 
And yielded to the rapid ftride 

Of annexation. 



66 TO THE BIG TREE ON BOSTON COMMON. 



VI. 

Behold, a mightier race appears 
And high a vaft Republic rears 

Her giant features, 
And weftward fteadily we drive 
The few poor Indian who furvlve 
And barely keep the race alive, — 

Degenerate creatures ! 

VII. 

For, are we not the mighty Lords 
And Mafters of all flivage hordes 

(In our opinion) ? 
And when we with Inferiors deal 
Do not we ufe the iron heel 
And make them wince and writhe and feel 

Their Lords' dominion ? 



VIII. 

You heard the flrft rebellious hum 
Of voices, and the fife and drum 

Of revolution ; 
And heard the bells and welkin ring 
When they threw off old George the King 
And thereby gained a better thing, — 

Our Conftitution. 



TO THE BIG TREE ON BOSTON COMMON. 67 



IX. 

And you ftill thrive and live to fee 
The country profperous and free, 

In fpite of all 
The very fage prognoftications 
Of prophets in exalted ftations 
Who could foretell the fate of Nations, 

And faid fhe'd fall. 



X. 

Majeftic Tree, you've feen much worth 
From little Bofton ifTue forth. 

And many men, 
Who love their kind and give their ftore 
To help the fuffering and the Poor ; — 
Heaven blefs their wealth and grant them more, 

I pray again. 

XI. 

And you fliall fee much more befide 
Ere to your root, old Bofton's pride. 

The axe is laid ; 
And long, I truft, the time will be 
Ere Mayor and Council fit on thee 
And find with unanimity 

That you're decayed. 



68 



TO THE BIG TREE ON BOSTON COMMON. 



XII. 

For you are ftill quite hale and ftanch 
Though here and there perchance a branch 

Is flightly rotten, 
And you will ftand and hold your fway 
When he who pens this rhyme to-day 
Shall mingle with the common clay 

And be forgotten. 




i 



A REVISIT. 



One bright and charming day laft Fall 

Some miles of ground I wandered over 
And climbed o'er many a fence and wall 

In the purfuit of quail and plover ; 
But all my toil was vain and fruitlefs, 

My fowling-piece not once I fired, 
The expedition proved quite bootlefs, 

And I became extremely tired. 



II. 



The day declined, — the Sun was fetting, 

As is its cuflom, in the Weft, 
And I, this world of care forgetting. 

Reclined beneath a tree to reft ; 
But ere my drowfy fenfes failed me 

A ftalwart farmer I defcried, 
Who from his market-wagon hailed me, 

And afked me if I'd like to ride. 



yO A REVISIT. 



III. 



" I live in Guilford, next to Stow, 

You'll fee it from the hill quite plain, 
I'll drive you there and you can go 

To Bofton in the evening train." 
So, thankful for the invitation 

That honeft Rufticus had offered, 
I left my graffy fituatlon 

And took the feat fo kindly proffered. 



IV. 

" So, that is Guilford, — I am glad 

To fee the place ; I well remember 
I paffed fome months there when a lad, - 

Blefs me, the tenth of next November 
Will make juft twenty years fmce I 

Went there a gracelefs little fcholar 
(Alas ! How quickly Time flips by !) 

In corduroys and ruffled collar. 



" I boarded with old Parfon Short, 

Whofe dwelling flood befide the hill." 

"The Parfon's houfe I've lately bought.' 
" Indeed ! is he not living flill ? " 



A REVISIT. 71 

" You might have known he'd go at length 

The way of finner and of faint. 
At Eighty-five he loft his ftrength, 

Then died. Sir, of his old complaint." 

VI. 

" Though crofs, he was the beft of men. 

And ril not let his faults outlive him, 
He'll never box my ears again 

And fo I cordially forgive him 
And truft that 'mid the ftars and faints 

He now partakes celeftial joys, 
Relieved of all his bad complaints. 

The afthma, and unruly boys. 

VII. 

" And where is white-haired Dr. Sloat ? 

With venerable locks of fnow ; 
He ufed to make my boyifh throat 

A channel for Elixir Pro. 
I think I fee his little fhop, — 

His bookcafe, with its queer old fixtures 
And ftuff''d gray owl upon the top 

That feemed to guard the pills and mixtures. 

VIII. 



The map of Europe on the wall. 
The grinning fkull upon the fhelf ; 



72 A REVISIT. 

His patients, — did he kill them all ? " 
" He did, and then he killed himfelf. 

For feeling out of forts one day- 
He took his celebrated pill. 

Then died, and fince, I'm glad to fay 
We haven't had a perfon ill." 



IX. 

" Ah ! There's the pond I ufed to fwim in. 

And gather fragrant water-lilies 
To give the fweeteft of young women, 

Who lived near where the cider-mill is. 
Yes ! fhe my very earlieft flame was, 

(At ten Love's very hard to fmother,) 
Matilda Jane her charming name was, — 

She's now a wife, I truft, and mother." 



X. 

Our drives, like all drives, had an end, 

We reached the parfonage at laft ; 
" Alas ! " faid I, " my worthy friend, 

This fets me thinking of the Paft ; 
I recollect the fpot right well, 

The very woodpile feems the fame ; 
And there's my chamber in the L, 

To which no funbeams ever came. 



A REVISIT. 73 



XI. 

" The venerable tree that bore 

Thofe pears fo puckery and hard, 
Is ftanding, as it did of yore, 

Right in the middle of the yard ; 
And there's the church, — I fee the vane 

Is pointing ftill to fou'-fou'-weft ; 
It always did, — but why complain 

Of aught that does its very beft ? " 

XII. 

I'll take a feat on yonder wall 

The while I'm waiting for the train. 
My bygone joys and griefs recall. 

And live my boyhood o'er again ; 
But ftay ! if life I've found is not 

Juft what my youthful fancy painted. 
And I revifit this old fpot 

With care and forrow well acquainted, 

XIII. 

And if no gentle heart is near me, 

Beating refponfive to my own, 
To aid, to counfel, and to cheer me. 

But I Life's battle fight alone ; 
Why fhould I rend the veil apart 

That keeps the Paft from coming o'er me, 
6 



74 



A REVISIT. 



To caft a fliadow on my heart, 

When I've the Future all before me ? " 

XIV. 

There ftill are prizes worth the flrife, 

And Fame and Honor to the gainer ; 
The foul that takes fad views of life 

Should let this wholefome truth fuftain her ; 
My heart, lefs buoyant than of yore, 

Still afks of Fortune profperous breezes, 
I've pufhed my fhallop from the fhore, 

Its fate to be what Heaven pleafes. 










ilk5^c 



TO A CLASSMATE. 
" We have heard the chimes at midnight." 

HENRY IV., SECOND PART. 
I. 

Old times come o'er me, and I fain would hear 
Something of one my heart holds ever dear, — 

Whether he's living ; 
Oh, can it be that he I love has gone 
Whence there is no return, to that long bourn ? 

I've my mifgiving. 

II. 

So now, my friend, for want of fomething better, 
I'll fend this very ftiort and rhyming letter. 

To afcertain 
If you ftill live, and recolle6t the chimes 
We've heard at midnight. Thofe delightful times 

Come not again ! 



III. 



And how ofttlmes to Fancy's realms we'd mount. 
And drink deep draughts — from the Pierian fount, 
To banilh cares ; 



76 TO A CLASSMATE. 

Then bivalve broils that marred the night's repofe, 
And then the larks, — I mean with u^hich we rofe 
In time for prayers ! 

IV. 

Our clafs is fcattered. Some by trade have thriven, 
And fome have laid their treafure up in heaven, 

(A fafe inveftment,) 
And there are fome the young idea who teach, 
And fome who praftife, fome who only preach, 

But here's no jeft meant. 



Some live in town, their quiet way purfuing, 
Who would be pleafed to hear what you are doing, 

And how you are ; 
So write us word, in profe, or woo the Mufe ; 
That you do either well, whene'er you choofe. 

We're quite aware. 

VI. 

How are your talents ? Have they run to wafte ? 
Do you ftill write, or have you loft your tafte 

For the poetic ? 
Are you religious ? Have you joined the church ? 
And have you found, or are you ftill in fearch 

Of the iEfthetic ? 



TO A CLASSMATE. 77 

VII. 

Do you find aught that gives you fatIsfa(Stion ? 
Does life prefent to you the fame attra6lion 

It did 'Mangfyne?" 
Or have your hopes of u^inning fame and glory, 
And being u^idely knou^n, in fong and ftory 

Vanifhed, like mine ? 

VIII. 

Unlefs you've fadly changed, I know^ you've gained 
The peace that's purchafed by a life unftained. 

Upright and moral ; 
More ratisfa6tory than vulgar praife. 
And better, nobler far, than poets' bays. 

Or heroes' laurel. 

IX. 

Write me and tell me how you pafs the time. 
In your delightful and far-diftant clime 

Of fruits and flou^ers. 
But ere I clofe, perhaps you'd like to know 
Of fome with whom you pafied, a while ago. 

Such pleafant hours. 

X. 

Well ; Kate ftill plays her tinkling guitar. 
And fits and gazes at that favorite ftar 
She named for you. 



78 TO A CLASSMATE. 

And fighs and languiflies, and rolls her eye j 
She thinks you're coming back ! (At one time I 
Believed that true.) 

XI. 

And as for Caroline, fhe took ofFence, 
Merely becaufe I faid fhe wanted fenfe ! 

So we don't fpeak. 
Poor little Sue, with whom you ufed to ride, 
Laft June was married ; and the darling died 

Within a week ! 

XII. 

How could you find it in your heart to leave her ! 
She was a fplendid girl ; in fa6l, I never 

Have feen a finer. 
Her fifter Jane — whom, doubtlefs, you remember' 
Married a miffionary, laft November, 

And went to China. 

XIII. 

And now, farewell ! — my horfe is at the door ; 
I'm for a ride, and therefore can't fay more. 

I really mifs you. 
And mean to write again, fome future day, 
But now I've merely time enough to fay, 

God blefs you. 



A COURSE OF BARK. 

Of Peter Van Duyfen, a Dutchman by birth, 

But a toper by habit and tanner by trade, 
Who for many a year but encumbered the earth. 
Yet at laft of the Church was an ornament made, 

Whofe true reformation 

And regeneration 
So ftruck with furprife every friend and relation, 
Aflonifhed his neighbors, delighted his wife, 
(Who had long felt aggrieved by his diflblute life) : 
And the caufe of his fudden return to the fold, 
Of which the particulars never were told. 
And have hitherto been fo enveloped in myftery. 

The beneficent mufe 

Will no longer refufe 
To relate the authentic and wonderful hiftory. 

Now, Peter perceived not the (hame and difgrace 

Of a thicknefs of fpeech and a rubicund face. 

And the name he had gained of "a very hard cafe ;" 

And the deeper he drank 

The more deeply he fank. 
Till his body was nought but an alcohol tank. 



50 A COURSE OF BARK. 

The day had long pafTed fince he offered his reafons 
For conftant Hbations, at all times and feafons ; 
And though fuch apologies feldom are found, 
Nor fupported by reafoning very profound, 
Yet I never would iheer at them. 
Laugh at or jeer at them. 
Or hurl an expreffion uncommonly queer at them. 
For they prove that their maker is fully awake 

To the h6i that he runs 'gainft the views of foci- 
ety, 
And feels himfelf called on excufes to make, 

Juft to fhow he's not loft to all fenfe of propri- 
ety. 
Mr. A. takes a drop for a pain in his head. 

And he thinks it will cure him without any quef- 
tion ; 
Mr. B. drinks becaufe he has oft heard it faid 

A little good brandy affifts the digeftion ; 
Mr. C. will remark he's been ill for a v/eek ; 
Mr. D. has a very bad pain in his cheek ; 
Mr. E. fears the falad may poffibly hurt him ; 
Mr. F. has the blues, and he drinks to divert him ; 

The powerful argument offered by G., 
Is that, much to his joy, he has lately been told 
Hot whifky and water is good for a cold ; 

And fo it goes on down to X., Y., and Z. 
The reafons for what a man wifhes to do. 
Though oftentimes weak, yet are never a few. 



A COURSE OF BARK. 1 

I once knew a man fo addicted to grog 
That he'd drink till his fenfes were loft in a fog, 
Becaufe he'd been working, he faid, like a dog. 
I prefume that the meaning he wifhed to convey 
Was, of courfe, that he'd been working hard all the 
day; 
But, as far as my own fmall experience goes, 
The work that all thofe that belong to the race 
Called canine, perform, is, in fome funny place, 

(Forever preferring the large cellar-doors,) 
With their jaws foftly cufhioned on both their fore- 
paws. 
To fniff off the flies as they light on their nofe, — 
And I always opined 
He was that way inclined. 
For, though earneftly feeking, I never could find. 
That fcience or art or religion or trade 
Had ever derived the leaft poffible aid 
From any exertion he ever had made. 

Nc'vv, I advocate always exceffive fobrlety, 
Thk^ igh I never have joined a tee-total fociety. 

And might not fay nay. 

On a very hot day. 
To a very large goblet of champagne ^^frappk^' 
Regardlefs of all Mrs. Grundy might fay. 
And provided, of courfe, there was nothing to pay ; 
Yet, 'tis better to keep from temptation away. 



82 A COURSE OF BARK. 

For I learned when a lad, in a fchool of defign, 
What a very hard matter Is drawing a line. 

But It feems, while I pen this irregular metre, 
That I'm faying uncommonly little of Peter. 
So, without more ado, I will briefly relate 

His narrow efcape from a danger he ran, 
By which he was faved from a terrible fate. 

And inftantly made a refpectable man. 

Though Peter, I've fald, was a tanner by trade. 

Yet a fortune by tanning he never had made, — 

For bufmefs of any kind needs attention, 

A fa6t it is never amifs to mention, — 

And his cuftomers fled from him, one after one. 

When they found that his work was moft wretchedly 

done. 
And faw what a rig he was trying to run. 
Then he'd nothing to do, yet for fpirits he'd fpend. 
And foon difcovered, with many regrets. 
That liquor will never liqui-ddte debts. 
And his courfe muft fpeedily come to an end. 
His creditors clamored for their demands, 
And his tannery foon pafled out of his hands ; 
With the brindle dog he was forced to part. 
Which touched, though It didn't renew, his heart. 
His wife worked on in grief and pain, 
That her child fhouldn't cry for bread in vain ; 



A COURSE OF BARK. Sj 

And fhe ftruggled and hoped, as women will, 
While Peter fank lower and lower ftill j 

Soliciting alms of each pafler-by, 
Drinking throughout the day his fill. 

And lodging at night in the neareft fty. 
If I pi6lure him truly, you'll fay I draw 
As wretched a being as ever you faw. 
But ftill, in the midft of his downward courfe, 
Would arife a feeling of deep remorfe. 
That would lead him oft in forrow at night — 

When ghofts^and goblins gibber and moan, 
Who are never beheld by the morning light — 

To vifit the tannery once his own ; 
And one ftormy night, as he ftaggered along. 
Meandering the hides and the vats among. 
While the wind blew high and the night was dark, 

There came a guft that took off his hat ; 
He tried to catch it, but reeled and fell. 
And down he went with a fearful yell. 

Tumbling headlong into a vat. 
There to go through with a courfe of bark. 

Down he went, and he fplafhed and fpluttered, 
And fierce were the cries that the vi6tim uttered ; 
But fruitlefs all, — there was no one near, — 
Not a human being with ears to hear. 
And a heart to feel, and a rope to throw ; 
Yet, had there been, I can fcarcely tell. 



84 A COURSE OF BARK. 

(For what others will do no one can know,) 

If they wouldn't have thought it juft as well, 
And have left him to tan with the hides below. 

Then Peter's agony foon began, 

For his pafl career appeared before him, 
And he knew himfelf a detefted man, 

And that none would in the leaft deplore hirh ; 
He knew repentance was all too late. 
That he foon mufl yield to impending fate, 
Down, down to fink, and there to ftay. 
Till fome. Heaven knows how diftant, day. 
When they'd find him tanned in the ufual way ; 
Then how they'd laugh, and fpeculate whether 
He'd make on the whole a durable leather. 
And load him with well-deferved abufe, 
And fay that for once they'd make him of ufe. 
And then into foles they'd cut up his body, 
So well preferved by the tan and the toddy. 

But while this rufhed acrofs his brain, 
He twice went down and rofe again ; 
And now his ftrength was failing faft, 

And weaker grew each vain endeavor — 
One bubbling fhriek — it was the laft 

Of Peter, who then fank forever, — 
Or would, had not that deathly cry 
Struck on the ear of a pafler-by. 



A COURSE OF BARK. 55 

In the fhape of the fame intelligent brute 

That Peter had owned in his beft eftate ; 
And now of his kindnefs he reaped the fruit, 

By being faved from a fearful fate ; 
For this moft grateful of brindled Towzers, 
With a bound, and a dafh, 
And a howl, and a fplafh, 
Jumped into the vat, as quick as a flaiTi, 
And faftened his jaws in a leg of his trowfers. 

Ah ! how one's experience conftantly teaches 
What many a flern and cold moralift preaches. 
That Gilead pofTefles for all men a balm. 
And a ftorm is a certain forerunner of calm, 
And when all things appear 
Moft dark, cheerlefs, and drear. 
That circumftance proves that the daylight is near ; 
For, when grief and defpondency wholly enflave us, 

And fad the forebodings and fears of the heart. 
When it feems as if nought from deftrudtion could 
fave us. 
And the laft rays of hope in the darknefs depart, 
Unlooked-for affiftance will raife and afluage us, ' 
Although adventitious, yet moft advantageous. 

But the courfe of events to delay by reflections, 
In a writer of tales, is the worft of objections ; 
And I think I fhall run little hazard in ftating, 



bb A COURSE OF BARK. 

That when fuch a perfon abandons narrating, 
And takes in its ftead both to profing and prating, 
He's a bore of a fize that there's no overrating ; 
And one's hero to leave at a critical time 
Should be reckoned by readers not lefs than a crime ; 

And 1 ought to have faid 

That Peter, half-dead, 
Was refcued when hope had entirely fled. 
And have told you at once how his canine preferver, 
By tugging with <^<7^-gednefs, vigor, and fervor, 

Through the darknefs a guide. 

Brought him clofe to the fide 
Of the vat, where a rope had been recently tied. 
If a man when he's drowning will catch at a ftraw, 
Why, of courfe, he will catch at a rope all the more ; 
So Peter ftruck out, and at laft made a grafp 
At the rope, and held on with the mufcular clafp 
Of a man who is juft at his very laft gafp ; 
And there he hung for the reft of the night. 
Till the morning broke with its ftreaks of light, 

When feveral workmen, who happened to pafs. 
Saved both of the brutes from their perilous ftate. 
And they carried Peter right out of the gate, 

Acrofs the road to a field of grafs. 
And there they punched him, and rolled him over; 
And you'll not deny when I venture to ftate 
That, though in the grafs, yet he wafn't in clover ; 
But fuccefs attended the operation, 



A COURSE OF BARK. 87 

And reftored the fufpended animation, 

By bringing on the proper pulfation ; 

And he came to himfelf, and then went to his wife, 

A different man for the reft of his life. 

No mufe of mine poflefTes the art 

To tell in any poetical ftrain 
Of the rapture pervading a woman's heart. 
Whatever her rank and worldly ftation, 

When fhe finds that her prayers were not made in 
vain, 

P'or of joy that feems a foretafte of Heaven 

A true portrayal can never be given, 
But muft ever be left to imagination. 

I fear I'm tedious, fo I'll briefly fay. 
That Peter lived from that eventful day — 

Or night — an honeft, prudent, upright man ; 
And many a long-loft friend of old 
Held forth his hand when he was told. 

That for the future Peter had a plan. 
By toil and prudence, and fome flight afHftance, 

He, ftep by ftep, regained the ground he'd loft. 
To all temptation he made fierce refiftance, 

Thinking experience was not worth its coft. 
Now firft at meeting, loudeft in the prayer. 

You'd fcarce fuppofe he'd e'er from virtue drifted ; 



bo A COURSE OF BARK. 

And many a perfon I have heard declare, 

That in exhorting he Teemed truly gifted. 
Soon fortune fmiled, for vice was at an end, 

And though 'twas humble, he adorned his ftation ; 
To all good projects was a zealous friend. 

And gave his fon a liberal education ; 
And oft in after years, when old and fat. 

The village boys at eve would clufter round him. 
To hear him tell the ftory of the Vat, 

And how poor dead and buried Towzer found him. 
Perchance the precepts that he threw around 
Did not fall profitlefs on barren ground. 



'^f^3 



fr7-a 



TO THE MERMAID. 

" Thou comeft in fuch a queftionable fhape 
That I will fpeak to thee." 

HAMLET. 
I. 

Mysterious Hybrid ! Near the Fejee Ifles 
You were entrapped, they fay, one Summer's eve, 

When, unfufpicious of the feaman's wiles. 
You fweetly fung, (but this I can't believe,) 

With execution that outrivalled Grisi, 

Arias from operas by no means eafy. 

II. 

Strange denizen of fomewhere in the deep, 
You come to us fo very well preferved 

That we might think you in the tranquil fleep 
Your innocence and beauty well deferved. 

Although your graceful figure's quite ereit ; 

For what from Mermaids could we not expe6l ? 

III. 

But there's no power now in your dark eyes 
To look with fcorn upon the dandy's fuit, 

7 



90 



TO THE MERMAID. 



You anfwer not to beauty's fmiles and fighs ; 

Then muft that heart be ftilled, that tongue be 
mute ; 
And this glafs cafe, excluding you from air, 
Proves the fad fad that life is abfent there. 

IV. 

I promifed me a very pleafant tafk, 

And hoped to pafs the evening tcte-d-tete ; 

There's many a queftion that I wifhed to a(k, 
Concerning all the cuftoms of your ftate ; 

I'm getting up a book, and looked to you 

For ftores of information ftrange and new. 



I wiflied to know if Mermaids had a king, 
Or chofe a prefident each year or two, — 

Had ftringent laws, for that's the fort of thing 
To make the populace their duty do ; 

Or lived together in a crazed community. 

Where each did as he lifted, with impunity ; 

VI. 

And all that happens in thofe coral groves 
That you inhabit in the realms below -, 

If you write tender veifes to your loves. 

If there's a place where naughty Mermaids go, 



TO THE MERMAID. gi 

If you have ledlures in the Winter feafon, — 
And if your Poets write both rhyme and reafon ? 

VII. 

If you have Mermaid lawyers and divines, 
And if the laft fay everything is vanity ; 

Whether you fpeculate in copper mines, 
And are not Mermaids fubjedl to infanity ; 

If pure fait water's all you have to drink. 

And if your tails don't fometimes get a kink ? 

VIII. 

Fond of the water you muft furely be. 
But do you have regattas every year ? 

And do you navigate the briny fea 

In fea-weed barks, — or ufe your tails to fleer 

Some fcooped-out tortoife fhells from grot to grot ; 

And is there any one who owns a yacht ? 



IX. 

Are any of the Mermaids politicians ? 

Do they fulfil each promife to the letter ? 
And do you find, if you employ phyficians. 

That of their ftuff the lefs you take the better 
Your health becomes ? In fa6l, I'm very fure 
You muft be patrons of the " Water Cure." 



92 TO THE MERMAID. 

X. 

Do you prohibit fmoking in the ftreets ? 

Do you confine the voting to the males ? 
What is the falutation when one meets 

Another Mermaid ? Do you fhake your tails ? 
Is charity much pra6lired in the fea, 
Or do you fancy fcandal with your tea ? 

XI. 

Have you the Magazines and the Reviews ? 

Do any of your fpinfters have the vapors ? 
How foon do you obtain the fteamer's news ? 

And pray, do all the Mermaids take the papers ? 
Do your young men do military duty ? 
And what's the ftandard market-price of putty ? 

XII. 

But this is ufelefs, — the grim tyrant, Death, 
Has placed his icy hand upon your brow ; 

Had I been near, to catch your parting breath, 
(It's very fafe for me to fay fo, now,) 

I might have gained a mafs of information 

That now is loft to me and to the nation. 

XIII. 

Irgrieve to think fome infidels there be 

Who fmile in fcorn whene'er your name they hear. 



TO THE MERMAID. 93 

Make it a point to difbelieve in thee, 

And dare to fpeak with fupercilious fneer. 
Who fay you are a wondrous incongruity, 
A fpecimen of Yankee ingenuity. 

XIV. 

As for myfelf, Pm wilh'ng to believe 

In all that travellers delight to tell ; 
I think the mefmerizers don't deceive, 

I frown on thofe who fay that you're a " fell ; " 
I think all the magicians fuperhuman. 
And will believe the Giantefs a woman. 

XV. 

I place a truft in the Aerial Ship, 

My love for the Hydrarchos is quite fervent, 
I've cruifed about our coaft to get a peep 

At my much flighted friend, the great Sea Serpent. 
A man can't put himfelf to nobler ufes 
Than taking fides with thofe the world abufes. 

XVI. 

And now, farewell ! There's more that I could fay, 
For my regard becomes each moment ftronger. 

But I'll poftpone it for fome other day ; 
This won't be read, if it is any longer ; 

You'll triumph yet, defpite the fceptic's laugh. 

Marvellous fpecimen of half and half ! 



A NIGHT IN THE RURAL DISTRICTS. 

HOW THE WRITER PLAYED THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY, 

THE RESULT OF THE SAME, AND AN INSTRUCTIVE MORAL 
DEDUCED THEREFROM. 



It was a drear December night, 

My duties were performed, — 
The Chairman, as he paid my fee. 

Remarked how hard it ftormed ; 
Perhaps he thought the lefture poor — 

Or, didn't think at all. 
Or didn't care what might that night 

The lecturer befall ; 
I afked him where the Tavern was, — 

He pointed down the ftreet. 
So Tavernward I bent my fteps 

And faced the cutting fleet. 
" What ho, within there, Houfe ! I fay ! 

Oh, blefs your fcraggy head ! 
Grim Boniface, and give to me 

This ftormy night a bed ! " 
He faintly fmiled and faid to me 

He'd do the beft he could, 



A NIGHT IN THE RURAL DISTRICTS. 95 

While I, as faintly fmiling back, 

Replied, I hoped he would. 
" I think," faid he, " I have a room 

That has a bed to fpare ; " 
" Enough," faid I, " my wearied frame 

Is anxious to be there." 
He led the way, — I followed him 

To — I forget the number ; 
Two beds were there, in one I faw 

A traveller in flumber. 
Five minutes later, and difrobed 

And gazing at the ceiling, 
I felt the charms of drowfmefs 

O'er all my fenfes flealing ; 
But when " the early village " clock 

Announced that it was four, 
I was awakened by a yawn 

That founded like a roar, 
I flily caft my eyes about 

And fciw my unknown friend 
In very Aim apparel, and 

A-fitting up on end j 
He rubbed his eyes, he fcratched his nofe, 

He liftened to the ftorm, 
His teeth they chattered in his head 

As if he wafn't warm ; 
And while I lay and looked at him, 

I wondered more and more, 



96 A NIGHT IN THE RURAL DISTRICTS. 

And faw him glance towards my bed 

And ftep upon the floor. 
Then hurry on his clothes and tie 

His tippet round his throat, 
And put his head infide his hat 

And button up his coat, 
Then walk up to the glafs and take 

His razor in his hand, — 
The while on every pore of mine 

Did watery globules ftand ; 
I thought he meant to kill me, and 

Made ready for a fpring. 
But it feems he wafn't thinking 

Of any fuch a thing. 
For he put it in his carpet-bag 

And flowly turned the key. 
And as he drew it from the lock 

He looked again at me ; 
And then the fole hypothecs 

By which thefe movements myftic 
I could explain, was that the man 

Had turns fomnambuliftic. 
My kindly feelings rofe at this, — 

Thought I, this lucklefs ftranger 
I muft obferve, to fee that he 

Comes not to any danger ; 
He took his carpet-bag and left 

And foftly clofed the door, — 



A NIGHT IN THE RURAL DISTRICTS. 97 

One inftant, and I flood ere6l 

In middle of the floor. 
Then drelTed myfelf with greater fpeed 

Than ever yet did mortal, 
And feized my hat, crept down the flairs. 

And iffued from the portal ; 
I faw him crofs a turnip-field 

And then the turnpike take. 
And as I thought he was ajleep^ 

I followed in his wake i 
I wondered where he meant to go, 

And fancied, with a (hiver. 
His obje6l was to drown himfelf 

On coming to the river ; 
But no ; he fafely crofled the bridge. 

While I crept clofe behind, 
Prepared to feize him if he feemed 

To fuicide inclined j 
He then pufhed on to where there flood 

A little way-fide inn. 
And there he knocked until he woke 

The bar-keeper within ; 
I, looking through the window-panes, 

Diflin6lly faw him take 
A glafs of fomething hot and flrong 

As if he were awake ; 
Then out he came and on he fped. 

In feeming defperation. 



98 A NIGHT IN THE RURAL DISTRICTS. 

For three long miles until he reached 

A lonefome railway ftation ; 
The truth flafhed out, — he meant to throw 

Himfelf acrofs the track, 
And fo Humanity forbade 

My longer holding back. 
And as the day was breaking faft 

I felt a trifle bolder. 
So walked up to the wretched man 

And flapped him on the fhoulder ; 
He turned on me moft tiger-like 

And faid, "Confound your eyes ! 
Juft you be careful how you take 

A fellow by furprife." 
I ftammered out — becaufe the cafe 

Admitted no difl^embling — 
That I had followed him for miles 

With all mv members trembling, 
For fear lefl: into danger's jaws 

He might perchance be brought 
While he was walking in his fleep, 

As I fmcerely thought. 
He looked at me from head to foot, 

Then fneeringly he faid, 
" You're either drunk or cracked or elfe 

The fools are not all dead." 
And thus for merely yielding to 

The di6lates of humanity, 



A NIGHT IN THE RURAL DISTRICTS. 



99 



I was accufed of drunkennefs. 

Of folly, and infanity j 
A leflbn then and there was taught, 

To mind my own affairs. 
And in fpite of all temptation. 

To let other folks mind theirs. 




TO A BUTTERFLY AT SEA. 

I. 

'Tis very kind, though vaftly queer. 
That you fliould call to fee me here, 

And I'll addrefs you ; 
For though I cannot underftand 
How you came out fo far from land, 
And you'll not tell, yet there's my hand, 

I greet and blefs you ! 

II. 

But fhould as foon expect to fee 
Mofs-rofe-buds on the main croff-tree ; 

(Ah, how I'd pet them !) 
Or 'round about the capftan's foot 
A bed of violets taking root. 
And telling me, although they're mute. 

Not to forget them ! — 

III. 

Or in the fhadow of the fail 
A lily lifting up her pale 
And lovely face, 



TO A BUTTERFLY AT SEA. lOI 



As on the ratlines to efpy 
A gay and brilliant butterfly, 
Seeking in vain, with anxious eye, 
One flowery place. 



IV, 



Sail on with us, — there's no obje6tion. 
And you can truft in my prote6tion. 

For you're to me 
Suggeftive of green fields and flowers, 
Woodbine and honeyfuckle bowers, 
And call to mind delightful hours. 
Of which, when fadnefs overpowers, 

I think at fea. 



The pantry-door fhall ne'er be clofed, 
And not a wifh fhall be oppofed. 

If you'll remain. 
The fugar-bowl fhall yield its fvveets, 
We'll give you fome luxurious treats, 
And ope our many potted meats. 

And beft champagne. 

VI. 

Go, range the cabin through and through. 
And truft me when I fwear to you, 
As I'm a finner, 



102 TO A BUTTERFLY AT SEA. 

That, fhould the fteward thwart your wifhes, 
I'll break his head with his own difhes, 
And hurl his carcafs to the fifhes, 
For dinner. 

VII. 

You heed me not ; and now you're gone, 
To tempt the mighty deep alone 

And unprote6led. 
No ! One who hears the raven's cry. 
And marks each fparrow fall and die. 
Watches o'er all with fleeplefs eye 
And even a fimple butterfly 

Is not negle6led. 

VIII. 

And he the rhymefter, who to-day 
Has wooed you in an idle lay, 

Is but like you 
A wanderer acrofs the Teas, 
And dreams away thefe days of eafe. 
Entranced with idle fantafies. 

Sweet, though untrue. 

IX. 

And though to ferious contemplation, 
And calm and pious meditation. 
Too oft a flranger, 



TO A BUTTERFLY AT SEA. 



103 



Knows that the ftrong, proteding arm, 
That can fubdue the fierceft ftorm, 
Is thrown around his powerlefs form, 
In time of dano-er. 




AN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO DINE 



" cui corpus porrigitur. 

VIRGIL. 



I. 

I've juft received your invitation 

To a rare banquet, thus you 'clept it, 
And much regret my fituation 

Is fuch that I cannot accept it ; 
No dining out is tljpre for me now, 

My ilhiefs is sufficient reafon j 
And could you but look in you'd fee now 

That I am laid up for a feafon. 



II. 

In payment for my fins I've caught a 

Diftreffing cold, and am in bed. 
With napkins wet with rum and water 

Twifted around my aching head. 
It feems as if that namelefs Gent., 

With cloven foot and fable coat. 
On rny annihilation bent. 

Had fixed his talons in my throat. 



AN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO DINE. IO5 



III. 



My voice, whofe tones, if not o*er pleafant. 

Would doubtlefs very much delight you, 
Is filent, and if you were prefent, 

I could not (dj what now I write you. 
You'll find it not an eafy tafk 

Deciphering this wretched fcrawl, 
But he can fome indulgence afk 

Who writes in bed againft the wall. 

IV. 

So when you read this lucubration, 

I muft requeft you'll not be critical ; 
Confider that my fituation 

Is not by any means poetical. 
A blifter that could draw a wagon 

Ufurps pofTeffion of my cheft ; 
It feems as if a fiery dragon 

Had made his home upon my breaft. 

V. 

I'm being now, like gold, refined 
With very fierce and raging fires. 

But not exactly of the kind 

That wit or verfe-making infpires. 

With not a thing to eat or drink. 
One can't be very bright or merry, 
8 



I06 AN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO DINE. 

I*d feel much better now, I think, 
If I could have a glafs of Sherry. 

VI. 

Pll own the wine-cup I have drained 

Since I've been ftretched upon my back, 
But then the wine the cup contained 

Is known as Wine of Ipecac ; 
And that, my candid mind confefles, 

(A fa61: I feel convinced that you know,) 
Does not alleviate diftreffes 

As much as your delicious "Juno." 

VII. 

Juft as the clock is ftriking five 

ril know you're fitting down to dinner. 
And at that time, if I'm alive, 

I'll pledge you in a draught of Senna ; 
And figh to lofe thofe fcintillations 

From wit that never yet was fpiteful. 
And all your brilliant corufcations 

Of fancy that are (o delightful. 

VIII. 

Pleafe give your guefts to underftand 
I'd gladly meet them at that hour, 

Were not misfortune's heavy hand 
Upon me with refiftlefs power ; 



AN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO DINE. IO7 

And though " in propria perfona " 

To vifit them I'll not be able, 
My fpirit yet may have the honor 

To come and rap upon the table. 

IX. 

When rifing from the board the crowd are 

^^ Vino ciboque^' quite ^^ gravatus^'' 
I fhall be talcing Dover's powder 

And mourning my unhappy ^^Jfatus.^' 
Then let me hope they'll kindly think 

Of him who pens this trifling ftanza, 
And filling up their glafTes, drink 

Confufion to the Influenza ! 




,0•(?|^iQOiC7^0•C^J 







A CHARCOAL SKETCH. 

" Perhaps, and then again perhaps not." 

Familiar Saying. 



I MEET a fellow often in my way, 

Urging a horfe and wagon through the flreets, 

And fhouting " Charcoal ! " to each one he 
meets ; 
I pafled him in the thoroughfare to-day 
But did not ridicule his features grim, — 
His ragged coat, and hat without a brim. 

Thought I, " That fellow in thofe fhabby clothes, 
Driving all day his fhapelefs horfe and cart, 
Owes nothing to the tailor or his art. 

Like many of our gallant city beaux ; 
And would that all of us, like him, could fay. 
Each night, that our purfuits throughout the day 
Had left no tarnifli harder to erafe 
Than what he has upon his hands and face ! 
There''s not a fpot of black upon his heart. 
It's all upon his face and hands and cart, 



A CHARCOAL SKETCH. 



109 



And he may ftand a better chance to go 
To Heaven than I, or many that I know." 

But this was Fancy's work, and we, 
Though better dreffed, perchance, are juft as good 
as he. 




THE JILTED KNIGHT. 



A BALLAD. 



I. 



A GALLANT knight and lady bright, 
(They termed them thus of yore,) 

Beneath a tree, love, conftancy, 
And truth forever fwore. 



II. 



"My deareft love ! the Heavens above 
Record the vows we've made ; 

With many a knight I go to fight 
Upon a great crufade j 



III. 



'Tis honor calls me from my halls 

And far, my love, from thee. 
With my good fword, from Paynim horde 

The Holy Land to free. 



THE JILTED KNIGHT. lit 



IV. 

It rends my heart from thee to part, 
But love muft yield to duty ; 

For valor, Fame fhall fpread my name 
As far as thine for beauty. 

V. 

And though, alas ! a twelvemonth pafs, 
My truth is pledged forever, — 

You'll not forget our fouls have met ? " 
The lady anfwered, " Never." 

VI. 

One long, laft fip of her fweet lip — 
One prefTure of the hand — 

The knight beftrode his fteed and rode 
Towards the Holy Land. 

VII. 

The lady fighed and fobbed and cried 

To fee him ride away ; 
In wretched plight fhe pafTed that night 

And part of the next day. 

VIII. 

But ere the fun its courfe had run 
Another knight came by, — 



112 THE JILTED KNIGHT. 

She fmoothed each trefs, arranged her drefs. 
And wiped her tearful eye. 

IX. 

This knight he fwore, though ne'er before 

He'd fet his eyes upon her, 
That he'd prefer to hve for her 

Than die for empty honor. 



She ceafed her fighs, and raifed her eyes 
That late with tears had glifiened, 

And could but hear thofe vows fincere, — 
Becaufe in footh fhe liftened. 



XI. 

Perchance fhe thought, as life was fhort. 

One lover near at hand 
Was worth at leafl ten in the Eaft, — 

Far in the Holy Land. 

XII. 

For jufl fuppofe that Paynim foes 
Should flay that abfent lover, — 

Slight good 'twould do that fhe'd been true, 
When Love's fweet dream was over. 



THE JILTED KNIGHT. II3 



XIII. 



As years advance, lefs grows their chance 

To captivate mankind : 
This facl, they fay, will often fway 

A lovely woman's mind. 

XIV. 

A bitter truth it is, that youth 

And beauty do not tarry, 
So ere they go, all maidens know 

'Tis better that they marry. 

XV. 

One ne'er would end did he pretend 

To ftate how fome will ufe 
Pure logic's art, their want of heart 

And falfenefs to excufe. 

XVI. 

O'er meadow, dale, and hill and vale 

The bridal bells rang out. 
While one true knight in bloody fight 

Was putting fcores to rout. 

XVII. 

'Neath burning fun brave deeds were done, 
Through love of her and glory, — 



114 THE JILTED KNIGHT. 

That her dear name by his great fame 
Might live in fong and llory. 

XVIII. 

Her fcarf he wore his breaft before, — 

Upon his helm her glove, — 
Some Poet Tings, what foolifh things 

Wife men will do for love. 

XIX. 

Where lances gleamed and banners ftreamed 

And life-blood ebbed away. 
Oh, would that knight had loft the fight 

And fallen in the fray ! 

XX. 

Thrice happy he right peacefully 

To fleep among the dead. 
Than live to find in womankind 

His faith forever fled. 

MORAL. 
XXI. 

Now fhould you be by Love's decree 

Pofleflbr of a treafure, 
Whofe lofs would make you loth to take 

In life the flighteft pleafure. 



THE JILTED KNIGHT. II 5 

XXII. 

There's one great rule, and he's a fool 

Whoever dares difcard it : — 
Go not afar to fcenes of war, 

But ftay at home and guard it. 

XXIII. 

Scorn confidence, — let common fenfe 

Alone be your advifer. 
Or elfe fome morn you'll wake forlorn, 

A fadder man, and wifer. 



ROMEO MONTAGUE TO JULIET CAPULET. 



Dear Juliet, come down from your lattice fo high, 
I've no ladder with which I can reach you ; 

There's no dew on the grafs and the walks are quite 
dry, 
So, deareft, defcend, I befeech you ! 

Love-making you'll find very nice, if you'll try, 
And I'm juft the perfon to teach you. 

II. 

I have come over roads very ftony and rough. 
And through perils fevere that befet me. 

Nor tarried to afk of each Capulet gruff 
If to love you he's willing to let me ; 

Pd have proved myfelf made of mod obftinate ftuff 
To each and to all, had they met me. 



III. 



At a very great ri(k to my clothes and my neck, 
I have clambered right over the wall, 

And the broken glafs-bottles its fummit that deck 
Did not fcare or reftrain me at all, — 



ROMEO MONTAGUE TO JULIET CAPULET. JI7 

Though I knew I would be a moft terrible wreck, 
If by chance I {hould happen to fall. 



IV. 

Nor fear I the fword of your big, burly brother. 
Who, perhaps, now is hovering nigh. 

But I'll dare every danger each night for another 
Bright glance from your dark rolling eye. 

It's no eafy thing, let me tell you, to fmother 
The flame that is lighted on high ! 



He who ne'er has been wounded may well jeft at 
fears. 

And to overcome peril eflay, 
Broken bottles fet endwife, nor locks, bolts, and bars, 

Can keep a true lover away ; 
Then by the foft light of the innocent ftars. 

Lift to all the fweet things I've to (dy. 

VI. 

It feems you obje6l to my family name, — 

I would I'd my vifiting card ; 
For although for my name 'tis not I who's to blame. 

Yet I'd tear in ten pieces the word ; 
But for fuch a flight caufe to extinguifh Love's flame 

Would truly be vaftly abfurd. 



Il8 ROMEO MONTAGUE TO JULIET CAPULET. 



VII. 

The flower we fancy fo much as a rofe 
Would afTuredly feem juft as fweet, 

And be as agreeable to eyes and to nofe 
If we called it a carrot or beet, 

And I as John Smith or Tom Brown, I fuppofe, 
Would appear juft as well in the ftreet. 

VIII. 

So in order no more to be under a ban. 
And denied an accefs to your door, 

I'll have my name changed juft as foon as I can, 
Nor be Romeo A4ontague more ; 

To think aught a facrifice — I'm not the man — 
That is done for the girl I adore. 

IX. 

Then, Juliet, defcend from that balcony high, 
I've a fermon on Love that I'll preach you, — 

We'll take a nice walk 'round the garden fo dry, 
So, deareft, come down, I befeech you ; 

Love-making, I think, you will like if you try. 
And I know 'twill be pleafant to teach you. 



THE REASON WHY. 



Her eye was like the violet 

When morning dews are on it, 
Her cheek competed with the rofe 

She wore in her Spring bonnet, 
Her lips were cherries in the fun 

Juft ripening on the ftem. 
Her teeth were like the gliftening pearls 

On royal diadem. 

II. 

Her figure was fuperb, — her grace 

Seemed really fuperhuman. 
For Nature fometimes does her beft 

To beautify a Woman ; 
In footh fhe was a lovely thing 

For Memory to recall. 
And yet he wooed her not — becaufe 

Her dividends were fmall. 



TO MY UMBRELLA. 



My well-tried friend, we've been together 
Through many a change of wind and weather 

Three years and more ; 
While ftrolling down the London Strand, 
To satisfy a fhower's demand 
And fave my clothes, I made a ftand 
At what appeared a " Hat, cap, and 

Umbrella ftcre." 

II. 

And then and there I purchafed you, 
The beft of all that were on view, 

For one pound one. 
And never fmce have felt regret 
For what I paid ; you're worth it yet, 
And I confefs that getting wet 

Affords no fun. 



III. 



While looking at you through the fmoke 
(That now enflirouds me like a cloak) 
Of my cigar, 



TO MY UMBRELLA. 12 [ 

My Fancy, for the humor's fake, 
A backward range eflltys to take, 
And fpeak of what has helped to make 
You what you are. 

IV. 

Some tree that raifed its branches high 
As if to paint the azure fky. 

Was forced to fall, 
And from a portion of its wood. 
Your ftaff was made, fo ftrong and good 
That many a fearful gale has flood 

Nor cracked at all. 

V. 

From the deep bofom of the earth. 
Where they experience quite a dearth 

Of light and air. 
The miner with his pick and fpade. 
Has dug the ore from which were made 

The tips you wear. 

VI. 

A monfter who afFe6ts the fea 
Has been prevailed upon to be 

Harpooned 'till dead. 
And from his great and mighty jaw 

9 



122 TO MY UMBRELLA. 

A fubftance, mifcalled bone, they tore, 
And fafliioned it with knife and faw 
Into fome dozen rods or more 
That you might fpread. 

VII. 

Another monfter, who beguiled 
The time by roaming India's wild 

Near Coromandel, 
While gambolling upon the plain, 
Defpite, and for, his teeth was flain 
That you for ufe, in cafe of rain. 

Might have a handle. 

VIII. 

Your filken cover, — to be brief,-— 
Was once a fimple mulberry-leaf 

On mulberry-tree. 
And now by procefles I'll not 
Mention, becaufe I can't, is what 

I plainly fee. 

IX. 

Many a fliower you have braved. 

And many a coat and hat you've faved, • 

Prote6ling thing ! 
All know there are not many ways 
In which a rhymefter ever pays 



TO MY UMBRELLA. 1 23 

For benefits conferred, — his lays 
Are fometlmes all that he can raife, 
So reft contented if your praife 
I briefly fmg. 

X. 

I've found you through all change the fame, — 
You've ne'er deferved that hateful name, 

Fair-weather friend ; 
Where'er I've been, on land or fea. 
By day or night, you've ftood by me 
When ftorms arofe, right gallantly, 

Until the end. 

XI. 

I prize you, though you have no beauty. 
For this, that you have done your duty 

As if you knew it. 
Now calm and quietly you ftand 
In reach of my extended hand. 
Ready, when fuch is my command, 

Again to do it. 

XII. 

When in a proper frame of mind 
There's nought in which one cannot find 

Inftru6live teaching. 
That will improve him, if he'll lay it 



124 ^^ ^^Y UMBRELLA. 

Clofe to his heart, and will obey it, 

As much, with all refpect I fay it. 

As pulpit preaching. 

XIII. 

I'll moralize, for foon or late. 
Such is the ftern decree of Fate, 

An angel comes 
With power to fummon us away. 
No choice have we to go or ftay, 
But that fad word. Farewell, muft fay 

To our dear homes. 

XIV. 

When to my life he puts the bound. 
In one refpecl would I be found 

Not unlike thee. 
Ere yet by Death my limbs are chilled. 
On this alone my hopes I build. 
That when my beating heart is ftilled 
I may be thought to have fulfilled 

My deftiny. 



OLD WINE IN NEW BOTTLES. 

NO. I. 

Said James to John, " Pray tell me, Sir, 

Why is it that the Devil, 
In fpite of all his naughtinefs, 

Can never be uncivil ? " 
Then John replied, " The anfwer's plain 

To any mind that's bright, — 
The Imp o' Darknefs ne'er can be 

Confidered hnp o' Light. '^ 



NO. II. 

My Chriftian friend, I've heard it faid 

The highly valued rarity, — 
A perfe6l wife, — with Satan has 

One point of fimilarity ; 
For, while in fleep the Hufband-man 

Forgets his worldly cares, 
She, to her credit be it faid. 

Then comes and fews the tears. 



126 OLD WINE IN NEW BOTTLES. 



NO. III. 

Old Paterfamilias called to his fide 

Little Tommy, his wonderful fon, 
And inquired, " How differs a hen with two wings 

From a hen that poffeffes but one ? " 
Then Tommy replied, for the lad in the field 

Of wit held extenfive dominion, 
" The diftin6tion is fmall, for there feems but to be 

A flight difference. Sir, of a pinion.'* 

NO. IV. 

Were you ever in Cork, Sir ? was Foote afked one 

day; 
And the A6tor replied in his humorous way. 
That though in moft cities of note he had been 
Yet of Cork 'twas the drawings alone that he'd feen. 

NO. V. 

Said Johnfon, this galvanized goblet of lead 

Shall be his who can fooneft affemble 
His wits, and fay when can a candle be faid 

A tombftone at all to refemble. 
Then Jackfon replied, with fuccefsful endeavor. 

Extending his hand for the cup, 
That a candle refembles a tombftone whenever 

* lis for any late hujhand fet up. 



OLD WINE IN NEW BOTTLES. 12'J 



NO. VI. 

The Pilgrim o'er a defert wild 

Should ne'er let want confound him, 
For he at any time can eat 

The /and which is around him. 
It might feem odd that he could find 

Such palatable fare, 
Did not we know the fons of Ham 

Were bred and inuflered there. 

NO. VII. 

Jane fears to walk 'mid flowers in Spring, 
Though each one fragrance diftils, 

Becaufe her nerves are weak, and all 
The plants 2iXQ, Jhooting piftils. 

NO. VIII. 

In a rage to the office of Counfellor B. 

Ruflied a gallant militia commander 
To learn whether " Jackafs," as oft he was called. 

Was a ground for an a6lion of flander ; 
The lawyer replied, " In fome cafes the term. 

If not flanderous, at leaft is pfeudonymous, 
But in yours, (and for this I fhall make you no 
charge,) 

I confider it merely fynonymous. 



128 OLD WINE IN NEW BOTTLES. 



NO. IX. 

Blank's Poems fell on Julia's head, 
Not long {he bore the pain ; — 

The Jury found flie died of milk 
And water on the brain. 



NO. X. 

I put my pen to this fcrap of paper 

To afk if you comprehend the relation 
The entry-mat bears to the outfide fcraper ? 

If you do, pleafe reply without hefitation ; 
But you don't, for your brain works exceedingly flow, 

And you needn't fmile in that imbecile way 
When I fay, a Jhp farther ; for you didn't know. 

And that ifn't what you were juft going to fay. 



NO. XI. 

At church, Joe fays, his manly heart 

With true devotion fwells ; 
Difproving that — as fome afTert — 

He's led there by the Belles ; 
While Jane, the happiefl: of coquettes, 

Whofe eye no forrow dims, 
Moft pioufly employs her time 

In looking for the Hims, 



OLD WINE IN NEW BOTTLES. I2g 



NO. XII. 

When Sambo, with a bull behind, 

Of life and limb in danger. 
Shuns any clofe acquaintance with 

The rude unpleafant ftranger. 
No doubt, like Patriots of old, 

Should fear (till leave him fenfe. 
He'd give, if nought for tribute, yet 

His '*• millions for de fence.^^ 

NO. XIII. 

"Are there not too many pajfages 

In Plagiary's Play ? " 
" Yes, {o many that the meaning 

Has wholly loft its way." 

NO. XIV. 

The Philofopher who feeks 

The fabled ftone in vain, 
Is like old Father Neptune, 

The Monarch of the Main ; 
For no perfon in his fenfes 

The conclufion can refift, 
When I fay, he is a feeking 

What never did exiji. 



130 OLD WINE IN NEW BOTTLES. 



NO. XV. 

The reafon why a bear fhould feelc 
A dry-goods fhop feems puzzhng, 

And fo I'll ftate that there he'd want 
Juft nothing elfe but mux'z.ling. 

NO. XVI. 

Byron afked Moore, " In Love wherein 

Aught of refemblance lies 
To the potato ? " " Why ! " faid Moore, 

" They both Jhoot from the eyes.^^ 
" That anfwer's good," rejoined my Lord, 

In the general laughter fharing, 
" But the lilcenefs that I fancied, was. 

They both decreafe by paring.'^ 

NO. XVII. 

'Tis not caprice that moves the duck. 

Throughout all times and feafons. 
To difappear beneath the wave, 

For it has divers reafons ; 
And its return to light and air 

Caprice does not direct, — 
The reafons for this fecond move 

Are fundry^ I fufpedt. 



OLD WINE IN NEW BOTTLES. I3I 



NO. XVIII. 

When Johnfon for a time diiTolved 

The conjugal relation, 
He told his wife he'd fend her funds. 

Which was a confolation j 
But fhe at laft was forced to fay, 

As by the months went flitting 
And nothing came, "Great kindnefs this, 

'Tis truly unremitting,^^ 

NO. XIX. 

Luck varies with the men who hunt 

For gold, as Pil explain : 
Some find the ore in creafes^ 

While others feek in vein. 



NO. XX. 

Knoweft thou, whene'er the joylefs mind 

Seems moft diftraught with grief. 
Where fympathy the heart can find. 

And genuine relief ? 
If not, then Reader, learn from me, 

Howe'er the cafes vary. 
You'll find Relief and Sympathy 

In every Dictionary. 



132 OLD WINE INT NEW BOTTLES. 



NO. XXI. 

Once, at a fcaft, when jokes flew 'round 

Much thicker than the flies, 
The hoft had doubts if he fhould carve 

The mutton faddlewife^ 
And therefore turned to Theodore Hook, 

The celebrated Wit, 
Who anfwered, " Bridlewife^ for in 

Mv mouth will be a bit.'' 

NO. XXII. 

Forth from the Opera I faw a wag, 

Well known to Fame in all his glory come. 
And as he ftepped upon the icy flag 

He fell with force enough to ftrike him dumb. 
And rolling over, landed in the gutter ; 

I fprang to fave, — but only caught his hat, — 
And as he rofe I thought I heard him mutter, 

" One muft C Jharp if he would not B fiat:\ 

NO. XXIII. 
qUESTION. 

Fair Joan of Arc, they fay, was not 

Sword, lance or pike afraid of; 
Can any perfon tell me what 

So brave a girl was made of ? 



OLD WINE IN NEW BOTTLES. I33 



The Heroine, whofe triumphant blade 
Made Bedford's foldiers dance, 

If Hiftory tells the truth, was Maid 
Of Orleans, in France. 



wm 



imiiiiiii 



SONNETS. 



Like an Indulgent mother, Nature ftill 
Awaits her prodigal's return ; — nor blame 
Nor fcorn has fhe, but ever fmiles the fame 
And yields her bounties to each one who will ; 
Her generous arms fhe opes to him who worn 
With toil and forrow, hopelefs and forlorn, 
Jaded and fainting with the unceafing ftrife 
And battle with the world, would feek for reft. 
Enfolds him like an infant to her breaft 
And reads him leftbns of a purer life. 
Here, with this ftreamlet rippling at my feet. 
Far from the roar and turmoil of the town, 
I feel the rapture of her prefence fweet, 
Nor would refign it for an Emperor's crown. 



134 



As Tome poor captive, prifoned and enchained, 
Who long in vain has ftruggled to be free, 
Will learn to deem his lot by Heaven ordained 
And yield to v^^hat he thought a ftern decree. 
So I, rebellious once, now can but blefs 
The fate that makes me fo entirely thine. 
To love and ferve thee is my happinefs ; — 
Who would be free where bondage is divine I 
In joy and grief, in pleafure and in pain, 
Neareft and deareft to thy heart I've flood ; 
'Tis mockery to say, " Be free once more," 
My arm is powerlefs to ope the door 
Would lead me forth ; — fo long I've worn thy chain 
I could not break it, Deareft, if I would. 



135 



Without, the tempeft rages, and the winds 
Howl like unearthly fpirits through the ftreet. 
My cafements fhalce in concert with the blinds, 
And all the panes are crufted o'er with fleet ; 
But here within is comfort and repofe. 
The cheerful logs are blazing on my hearth, — 
Of favorite books in rows fucceeding rows. 
That ftand at my command, there is no dearth ; 
Thefe are the valued friends with whom I live, — 
Friends who affume no privilege to fay 
Unwelcome truths, or mark my faults, or give 
Unafked advice, — right pleafant friends are they. 
With them, — this pipe, — that flallc of Rhenifh 

wine, — 
Though tempefts rage, — beatitude is mine. 



136 



I PINE and languifh with defire to know 
Something of this unquiet heart of mine, 
The myftery of its life, and where fhall flow 
In future time this efTence fo divine, — 
Soul, Spirit, Mind, Intelligence, or Love, 
Or whatfoe'er, — that raifes me above 
The brutes that wholly die ; and whence arofe 
The fparic that lighted in my heart this fire. 
As Life is haftening on, more fiercely glows 
Within me this unfatisfied defire 
Heaven's book of knowledge in my hands to grafp 
And all the bonds of Ignorance unclafp ; 
But I muft wait God's time, — then each fhall 

know 
Whence his life came and whither it fhall go. 



137 



10 



In genial funfhine and in ftormy weather 
O'er pleafant flopes and through fome rugged ways. 
E'en from the earlieft of our boyhood's days. 
We two have walked Life's varied path together. 
And fhall we now, in fpite of what hath been 
Through all thefe years, ignore the well-knit band 
Of fellowfhip ? Aloof fhall we two ftand 
While wider grows the gulf that yawns between, 
Until its hollow jaws fhall ope fo wide 
That all endeavor will be vain to crofs, — 
While we regret, too late, each other's lofs, — 
And all for cherifhing a foolifh pride ? 
No. Not if one atoning word of mine 
Sent from my heart hath power to meet with thine. 



138 



,. ^ 1 o. ^ 

i^^^^^^^ 



As fome light bark upon a fummer Tea 
Holding its homeward courfe, with hope elate 
And joy triumphant, fpeeding gallantly, 
Unconfcious of its Tad impending fate. 
Is fuddenly by Jove's dread lightning riven. 
Then, wrecked and fhattered, by the tempefl: driven ; 
So my confiding heart, that day by day 
Seemed haftening to the haven of its reft 
Where Care and Sorrow ne'er fhould find their way. 
But Love and Happinefs would build their neft, 
Was ftricken by a fatal blow, and hurled 
Again upon a cold and heartlefs world ; 
Hope, as fhe fled me, whifpered all was loft. 
And nov/ my heart is wrecked and tempeft-toft. 



139 



Sife qMQ oXo 0X0 oXa OAG ox^ oXb d*3 6JKQ 63KQ 6) 



mWi^^&^^I^Gm&^&^^^l^ 



There is an Art no penalties engird, 
Of power tranfcendent, — ever in our reach,- — 
And our own hearts its daily need can teach ; 
No laws reftri6t its ufe, — to all 'tis free 
As Heaven's great gift of air ; the vulgar herd 
Have equal rights with Kings ; and yet 'tis ftrange, 
Knowing its limitlefs extent of range, 
So few employ its magic miniftry. 
Its fway o'er young and old no voice can fpealc, — 
It hath a charm to change the wayward mood 
Of friends and lovers, — to fuftain the weak, — 
To tame the brutal, — to reftrain the rude, — 
To win the wandering, and to foothe diftress. 
'Tis Love's own graceful Art of Gentlenefs. 



140 



The knell is tolled of all my joyous dreams 
Of tranquil happinefs, my Love, with thee. 
And all the Future, once fo brilliant, teems 
With nought but lonelinefs and mifery j 
For Hope lies buried, — funeral tapers burn 
Where Hymen's torch fhould throw its gladdening 

beams. 
Dark fhadows greet me wherefoe'er I turn, 
And feem to mock me with a fiendifh glee, — 
No refignation can my fpirit learn, — 
No confolation can Time bring to me ; — 
A barren fpot whereon no funfliine gleams, — 
A wreck abandoned on a ftormy fea, — 
A withered garland on fepulchral urn, — 
Are what my heart is like, apart from thee. 



141 



10 



Advice is wafted both by Sage and Preacher 
Becaufe Experience ever keeps the fchool 
Wherein all learn, — the wife man and the fool ; 
Whate'er men (dy^ (he is the only teacher, 
Her tafks are hard, — her leiTons, flowly learned. 
Are ne'er forgotten ; deeply are they burned 
Into the very foul. Ah, yes ! and when 
In later years our felf-conceit departs. 
And, if at all, true wifdom comes to men, 
A confcioufnefs of folly fills our hearts ; 
The mifts that fhroud our vifion break away 
And then to our regret we clearly fee 
What vain illufions lured our fteps aftray ; — 
How falfe the Gods to which we bent the knee. 



142 



Is there no balm in Gilead for the mood 
Wherein I fit in mifery, and feel 
Anew the agony Time will not heal ? 
In hopeleffnefs, defpair, and grief I brood, 
My heart confuming in this folltude, 
Groping in darknefs, — • feeking but in vain 
For comfort to this mourning foul of mine ; 
Hath Friendfhip's gentle craft no anodyne 
To foothe the trouble of an o'erwrought brain ? 
Alas ! No miniftry of human art, — ■ 
Whate'er its miffion in this world of pain, — 
Can cure the defolation of the heart ; 
But Faith, that bids us never to defpond. 
Can rend the gloom and lliow the Heaven beyond. 



H3 



In this delicious filence To profound 
Of Night's moft halcyon hour, as I lie 
Stretched on the turf beneath a gorgeous fky 
While all the world is hufhed, am I not crowned 
With Heaven's divineft gift, — a joyous heart ? 
All paiTions ceafe, — no evil thought can mar 
The glory fhed on me by moon and ftar, — 
The world's vexations one by one depart, 
The wounds of daily fufFering are healed, — 
Long-cherifhed hatreds, and all fenfe of wrong 
Held in my inmoft foul I freely yield ; — 
For perfect Love, e'en fuch as Poet's fong 
Hath never told, fo fills this heart of mine, 
I know the Prefence near me is Divine. 



144 



Before my voice is filent with the dead, 
Would I might breathe one grand and noble lay 
That, — fung befide the dying fufFerer's bed, — 
Would foothe the fainting foul and aching head, — 
Teach my fad brethren on their onward way 
To ftruggle manfully from day to day, — 
Infpire a firmer truftfulnefs, — relieve 
The bitter agony of thofe who grieve, — - 
Roufe the defpairing, — and make cold hearts beat 
With a fublime emotion. I would give 
All of this life in human hearts to live. 
Grant me to fing that fong divinely fweet, 
Then 'neath the daifies joyfully I'll lie 
For I fhall know I cannot wholly die. 



145 



L'ENVOI. 



TO THE READER. 



My wifh is granted, if the pafling hour 
That thou haft given to thefe, — my fmiles and 

tears, — 
Should have by happy chance the magic power 
As friends to leave us for the comino- vears ; 
It may be fo, if aught from heart of mine 
Hath touched a chord that vibrated in thine. 



146 



